jim gillett - six years with the texas rangers

SIX YEARS WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS

1875 TO 1881

James B. Gillette

Yale University Press

New Haven, Connecticut

1925

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INTRODUCTION

The story of the Texas Rangers has never been told in its entirety, nor can it be told

without recounting the history of Texas itself. The modest volume of Sergeant James B.

Gillett, here presented to the reader, does not undertake to recount the history of the

Ranger organization, but merely to present a cross section of that history during the

picturesque, lurid years of Sergeant Gillett’s service as a Ranger.

The term Ranger carries the tang of the old American frontier, and as applied to the

Texas State Police it embodies a wealth of historical association. Probably the most

notable Ranger force in American annals was the organization of irregular partisan

warriors led by Major Robert Rogers in the French and Indian War. Rogers’ Rangers

and the Texas Rangers share in common the quality of being composed of picked

men trained to the use of arms and ready at all times to engage in any enterprise however

hazardous it might be: but while the earlier organization was of but temporary

duration, created for service in a foreign war, the more recent one is permanent,

having existed almost a hundred years.

The history of the Texas Rangers is coeval with that of the republic itself. “Before

the first gun of the Texas Revolution was fired at Gonzales in December 1835, before the

Declaration of Texan Independence was adopted, before the heroes of the Alamo laid

down their lives for freedom, and before the Mexican Army under Santa Anna was

destroyed by Sam Houston at San Jacinto, a Ranger force was organized in Texas.”

Thus spoke Chief Justice Fly of the Texas Civil Court of Appeals in a recent decision

The source of this Texas Ranger Hall of Fame E-Book™ is in the public domain. However, this file may not be changed, re-distributed, sold, rented, or modified without the permission of the Director, Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum. PO Box 2570, Waco, Texas 76702-2570.

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upholding the constitutionality of the Ranger law. Even before an army was raised, the

Ranger force was established, consisting of three companies of fifty-six men each.

Although the force has varied in size from time to time its existence has been continuous

from its first organization until the present moment.

To guard the frontier against the Indian and the Mexican was the original task of

the Rangers. At the end of half a century the Indian menace had practically disappeared, and

that presented by the Mexican from across the Rio Grande had measurably diminished

in intensity. Meantime, the Rangers had assumed the added duty of repressing

domestic foes of the peace of the commonwealth throughout the far-flung Texan

borders. Thereby the force began to assume the character of a mounted state police

whose activities were directed to supplementing and reinforcing the efforts of sheriffs

and other local officials in the maintenance of peace and order. And there was plenty of work of

this character to do, for most of the huge area of Texas was still a frontier region

forty or fifty years ago, wherein banditry flourished and crimes of violence were committed

with appalling frequency.

In the discharge of their onerous and dangerous duties the Texas Rangers long

since attained widespread and well-deserved renown. The utility of such an organization

began to be perceived by other commonwealths, and New York, Pennsylvania, Michigan,

and a number of others now maintain forces of state police. Already some of these

organizations, notably the state police of New York and Pennsylvania, have begun to

achieve a renown of their own. Compared with the Texas Rangers, however, all other


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state police organizations are still in their infancy, and from the widely changed

character of the problems which confront them, none can ever have a career comparable

to that which lies behind the Rangers.

Today, as of old, the Rangers maintain vigilant watch and ward over the peace and

welfare of the commonwealth of Texas. Owing to fiscal considerations the force has

in recent months been reduced until it constitutes but little more than a skeleton

organization, with a total force, for the five companies now existing, of less than thirty men.

There is nothing particularly new in this, for Sergeant Gillett recounts in his narrative

crises of like character almost half a century ago. To some extent the gas chariot has

replaced the mustang as a vehicle of transportation for the force. Despite these changes

the Rangers yet remain a powerful influence in the maintenance of peace and order; and

still, as of old, their arrival brings a sense of relief and security to the law-abiding and a

corresponding depression of spirit to the law-breaker.

To edit such a narrative as Sergeant Gillett’s Six Years With The Texas Rangers

is both a privilege and a pleasure. His is a great story, simply and modestly told. The age

of opportunity for Americans will not be closed so long as careers such as his are

possible; and there need be no fear for the welfare of the republic while men of his

stamp comprise the majority of her citizenry.

It seems proper, in concluding, to inform the reader how the narrative came to

assume its present form. In the nature of things men of action cannot ordinarily become

masters of the art of literary composition. Nor is the man of university training commonly


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able to arrange his manuscript in form suitable for publication without the assistance of a

competent editor. When preparing his story for publication several years ago, Captain

Gillett invoked the aid of an editor to assist him in putting it into its final literary form. The book

as then published has been subjected to a further careful revision by the present

editor; certain corrections have been made and considerable additional information has

been supplied by Captain Gillett; and the work as revised has been submitted to his

final scrutiny and approval.

Burton Historical Collection, Detroit.

May 4, 1925


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PREFACE

To write a complete history of the Texas Rangers as a s tate organizat ion would

require much t ime and an able his tor ian. I am not an his tor ian and could not

undertake an exhaustive treatise, and it is only at the earnest solicitation of my

children, frontier friends, and old comrades that I have undertaken to write a short

history of the Rangers during the years I served with them. This little volume, then, has only

the modest aim of picturing the life of the Texas Rangers during the years 1875-1881. I

cannot at this late date recount in detail all the scouts that were made while I was in the

service. I have, therefore, confined myself principally to the description of those in which I was a

participant. Naturally, I remember these the best.

It has been said that truth never makes very interesting reading. Of the accuracy of this

dictum I leave my readers to judge, for I have told my story just as I remember it, to the

best of my ability and without any effort to embroider it with imagination. If I can interest

any of my old Ranger comrades or even one little boy who likes to read about a real

frontier, I shall feel amply repaid for all the labor and expense involved in preparing this work.

I wish sincerely to thank Miss Mary Baylor for placing at my disposal the books

and papers of her distinguished father, Captain G. W. Baylor. And I would be an ingrate,

indeed, did I fail here to record my obligation to my wife, without whose inspiration and

sympathetic encouragement this book would never have been written.

That I might show the training of the typical Texas ventured to include a short account

of to the time I became a Ranger, June 1, 1875.


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CHAPTER I

THE MAKING OF A R A N G E R

The greatest shaping force in human life is heredity, and from my father I inherited

my love o f the open f ron t i e r and i t s l i f e o f danger and excitement. This

inheritance was further strengthened by environment and training, and finally led me to

embrace the life of the Texas Ranger. My father, James S. Gillett, was himself a

frontiersman, though born in the quieter, more settled east. When he was very young his

parents migrated from his birthplace in Kentucky to Missouri. Here, after a short time,

they died and the young orphan lived with a brother-in-law. When still quite a youth my

father, with three other adventurous Missourians, set out on an expedition to Santa Fe, New

Mexico. While passing through Indian Territory, now the state of Oklahoma, the little

party was captured by the Osage Indians. Fortunately for the youngsters, their captors

did them no harm, but turned them loose after two weeks imprisonment in the redskin camp.

Despite this first setback my father persevered and reached Santa Fe. Here he lived

several years and mastered the Spanish language. Not long afterward the emigrating fever

again seized him and he journeyed to Van Buren, Arkansas. While living there he studied

law and was admitted to the bar. Shortly thereafter he removed to Paris, Texas, where he was

elected to the legislature as representative for Lamar and adjoining counties.

When Texas entered the Union and brought on the Mexican War, my father enlisted

in 1846 and rose to the rank of major. In 1854 he was adjutant general of Texas. In 1859-

1860, during the governorship of Sam Houston, my father was quartermaster of a


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battalion of Rangers, thus making it natural that I should also feel drawn toward this

famous organization.

At the time of the Civil War my father was beyond military age—he was born in

1810—but as the South became hard-pressed for men he enlisted in the spring of 1864

and served in Captain Carington’s company until the end of the war.

In 1850, a few years before he became adjutant general, my father married Miss Bettie

Harper, then a resident of Washington County, Texas. My mother’s father, Captain

Harper, was a southern planter who had emigrated from North Carolina between 1846

and 1848, and, settling in Washington County, established a Dixie plantation with a hundred

slaves. My mother was a cultivated and refined woman. On her marriage she brought

several negro servants with her to her new home in Austin. Of her union with my father

five children were born. The first two, both boys, died in infancy. I was the fourth

child born to my parents, and first saw the light of day in Austin, Texas, on November 4,

1856. An older sister, Mary, and a younger, Eva, survived to maturity.

At the close of the Civil War my father returned to his family pretty well broken in

health and spirit. His slaves had been freed and his landholdings, about two hundred acres of

cedar land, some five or six miles from Austin, and a tract of pineland in Grimes

County, Texas, were not very productive. There was not much law practice in Austin

following the close of the war, but my father set to work resolutely to provide for his

family. Though I did not realize it then, I now know that he had a hard struggle. I was

only eight and a half years old when he returned from the Confederate Army, but I


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remember he used to amuse himself by relating to us vivid accounts of his Indian

fighting and frontier adventures. What heredity gave me a predilection for was

strengthened by these narratives, and I early conceived a passionate desire to become

a frontiersman and live a life of adventure.

In those early days there were no free schools in Austin, so my father sent the three of

us, Mary, Eva, and myself, to the pay schools. None of these was very good, and I lost nearly

two years at a German school, trying to mix German and English. I have never been

of a studious nature—the great out-of-doors always called to me, and I found the

confinement of school particularly irksome. When school closed in the early summer of 1868

I went fishing, and never attended school an hour thereafter. For books I substituted the

wide-open volume of nature and began the life of sport and freedom that was to prepare

me later for service with the Rangers.

Poor as he was, my father always kept a pony, and I learned to ride almost before I

could walk. Raised on the banks of the Colorado River, I learned to swim and fish so long

ago that I cannot now remember when I was unable to do either. I fished along the river

with a few hand-lines and used to catch quantities of gaspergou or drums. These were fine fish

and sold readily on the streets of Austin, so I soon saved money enough to buy a small

skiff or fishing boat. I now bought a trotline with a hundred hooks and began fishing

in real earnest. About five or six miles below Austin on the Colorado was Mathews

mill. Just below the milldam the fishing was always good, and here I made my fishing

grounds. I had a large dry goods box with inch auger holes bored in it. This box, sunk


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in the river and secured by a rope tied to a stake driven in the ground, made a capital

trap, and into it I dropped my fish as they were caught. In this way I kept them

alive and fresh until I had enough to take to town.

Many free negroes were farming along the banks of the Colorado, and I would hire

a pony from them for twenty-five cents a trip when I was ready to take my catch into

town. Many times I left the river by starlight, reached the old Market House at Austin

at dawn, spread out a gunnysack, and bunched my fish in readiness for the early

marketers. I kept up my fishing until the fish stopped biting in the fall of 1868.

Many Confederate soldiers returning home from the war brought with them old

Enfield muskets. These were smoothbore and chambered one large ball and three

buckshot. These old guns, loaded with small shot, were fine for use on birds and

squirrels, but they had one serious objection—they would kick like a mule. As the boys

used to say, they would “get meat at both ends.” A day’s shooting with one of

these muskets would leave one’s shoulder and arm black and blue for a week.

When fishing failed I decided to become a hunter, and bought one of these old guns

for $3.50. It was almost as long as a fence rail, and at my age I could not begin to hold it

out and shoot off-hand, so I had to use a rest. The Enfield musket had the longest

barrel I have ever seen on a gun, and the hammer was as long as a man’s hand. I could

cock my gun with both hands, but if I failed to get a shot I was not strong enough to let

the hammer down without letting it get away, so I had to carry it cocked. To keep from

losing the cap, I would take it off the tube and put it in my pocket until I had a chance for


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another shot. I remember once when I cocked my musket I could see no cap on the tube and,

thinking it had fallen off, I pulled the trigger. The cap had stuck up in the hammer and

the gun roared like a cannon. I was always sure to look for the cap after this. I did not

make much headway using this kind of weapon, but it taught me the use and

danger of firearms, a knowledge I was to find very useful in later years.

In the spring of 1869 I returned to my fishing lines, and in the fall I bought a

double-barrel shotgun for $12. With it I killed quail, ducks, and other small game, all of

which I sold on the streets of Austin. By the fall of 1870 I was fourteen years old and could

handle a gun rather well for one of my age.

Early that winter wild geese came south by the hundreds. I used to hunt them down

the Colorado River, ten or twelve miles below Austin. The birds would feed in the cornfields

in the early morning, then flock to the sandbars in the river during the middle of the day.

There was nothing silly about those geese, for they were smart enough to frequent only the

big islands, three or four hundred yards from any cover. It was impossible to reach them

with any kind of a shotgun. I used to slip up to them as close as I could and watch them for

hours, trying to think of some plan to get within gunshot of them. I saw as many as a

thousand geese on those bars at a single time. I have thought regretfully of these birds

many times since, and have wished I could have shot into one of the flocks with a

modern rifle—I could have killed a dozen geese at a shot.

In the spring of 1871 I had my first trip to the frontier of Texas. My father traded

some of his Grimes County pineland for a bunch of cat t le in Brown County, and


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took me with him when he went to receive the herd. This was the first time I had ever been

twenty-five miles from Austin. I was delighted with the trip, the people, and the country. Those

big, fine frontiersmen, each wearing a pair of revolvers and most of them carrying a

Winchester, fired my boyish imagination. Their accounts of frontier life and their

Indian tales fascinated me. I wanted to stay there with them and lost all interest in ever

living in town again. During the same year my father drove several bunches of cattle to Austin

and I helped him on these drives. Thus I began to be a cowboy—my first step toward

the life of the open, upon which I had set my heart.

In the summer of 1872 my mother’s health began to fail and my father took her to

Lampasas Springs. The water seemed to help her so much that he decided to make

Lampasas our home. At that time Lampasas County was strictly a cattle country, but

there was not much cow hunting during the winter. The cattlemen and the cowboys spent

a good deal of time in town just having a good time. During this period I became well

acquainted with them. In the spring of 1873 my father made a trip back to Austin on some

business. The frontier had been calling to me ever since my first visit there, and I now

took advantage of his absence to slip out to Coleman County, at that time on the frontier

of Texas.

Monroe Cooksey and Jack Clayton had bought a brand of cattle in Coleman

County and I saw the outfit when it left Lampasas. I was slightly acquainted with most

of the men in this outfit, so I decided to follow it and try to get work. It was an Indian

country every step of the way, and I was afraid to make the trip alone. In a day or


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two I met a man named Bob McCollum. He was hauling a load of flour to Camp

Colorado and let me travel with him. I bade my mother and sisters good-bye and did not

see them again until the next December.

We reached old Camp Colorado without mishap in about five days. Clayton and

Cooksey’s outfit was there loading up supplies for the spring work. I stood around watching the

cowboys making their preparations, but lacked the courage to ask them for work.

Finally, the outfit started down on Jim Ned Creek to camp for dinner. I went with

the men and at last got up spunk enough to ask Monroe Cooksey for a job. He looked

at me for a minute and then asked, “What kind of work can a boy of your size do?”

I told him I was willing to do anything a boy of my age could do. He made no reply,

and we went on and camped for dinner. After dinner the men made ready to go over on

Hoard’s Creek to camp for the night. The boys made a rope corral and began to catch their

mounts. I just stood there like an orphan watching them. Presently Mr. Cooksey

threw his rope on a heavy-set bay horse. The animal showed the whites of his eyes, made a

rattling noise in his nose, and struggled so violently that it took three men on the rope

to hold him. Mr. Cooksey then turned to me and said, “Here, boy, if you can ride

this—you have a job cinched.”

I turned, grabbed my saddle, bridle, and blanket and started to the animal. An

elderly man in the outfit headed me off.

“Young man,” he said, “this is an old, spoiled horse, and unless you are a mighty good

rider you had better not get on him.”


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I brushed him aside.

“Pshaw, I’m hunting work, and while I’m not a broncho buster, I will make a

try at riding him if he kills me.”

By this time one of the boys had caught the horse by both ears and was holding him

fast. They threw my saddle on him, tightened up the cinch, and finally, after much

trouble, got the bridle on him and lifted me into the saddle. When I had fixed myself as

best I could they let the animal go. He made two or three revolving leaps forward and fell

with his feet all doubled up under him.

Mr. Cooksey seemed to realize the danger I was in, and shouted to me to jump off.

Before I could shake myself loose the horse had scrambled to his feet and dashed off in a run. I

circled him around to the remuda (bunch of surplus saddle horses), and rode him until

night without further trouble. I had won my job, but it was a dirty trick for a lot of men to

play on a boy, and a small boy at that. However, to their credit, I wish to say they never put

me on a bad horse again, but gave me the best of gentle ponies to ride.

Our first work was to gather and deliver a herd of cattle to the Horrell boys, then

camped on Home Creek. We worked down to the Colorado River, and when we were

near old Flat Top Ranch the men with the outfit left me to drive the remuda down the

road after the mess wagon while they tried to find a beef. I had gone only a mile or

two when I saw a man approaching me from the rear. As he came up I thought he was

the finest specimen of a frontiersman I had ever seen. He was probably six feet tall,

with dark hair and beard. He was heavily armed, wearing two six-shooters and carrying a


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Winchester in front of him, and was riding a splendid horse with a wonderful California

saddle. He rode up to me and asked whose outfit it was I was driving. I told him

Cooksey and Clayton’s. He then inquired my name. When I told him he said, “Oh, yes; I

saw your father in Lampasas a few days ago and he told me to tell you to come home

and go to school.”

I made no reply, but kept my horses moving. The stranger then told me his name

was Sam Gholston. He said it was dangerous for one so young to be in a bad Indian

country alone and unarmed, that the outfit should not have left me alone, and counseled me to go

back to my parents. I would not talk to him, so he finally bade me good-bye and galloped off.

His advice was good, but I had not the least idea of going hone—I had embraced the frontier

life.

Cooksey and Clayton did not stay in business long. After filling their contract with

the Horrell boys they sold out to Joe Franks. I suppose I was sold along with the outfit, at

least I continued to work for Mr. Franks. A kinder heart than that of Joe Franks never beat in

a human breast. He was big of stature and big of soul.

He seemed to take an interest in his youthful cowpuncher, and asked me where I

was raised and how I came to be away out on the frontier. When cold weather

came on that fall he gave me one of his topcoats. It made a pretty good overcoat for

me and came down quite to my knees. The sleeves were so long I could double them

up and hold my bridle reins, and in one garment I had both coat and gloves.


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During the summer of 1873 John Hitsons, Sam Gholston, and Joe Franks were

all delivering cattle to old John Chislom, whose outfit was camped on the south side of

the Concho River, about where the town of Paint Rock now stands. The other outfits

were scattered along down the river about half a mile apart. There were probably

severity-five or a hundred men in the four camps, and at least five hundred horses. One

evening just after dark the Indians ran into Gholston’s outfit, captured about sixty head

of horses, and got away with them. The redskins and the cowboys had a regular

pitched battle for a few minutes, firing two hundred shots. This fight was in plain

view of our camp, and I saw the flash of every gun and heard the Indians and the

cowboys yelling. One of Mr. Gholston’s men received a flesh wound in the leg and several

horses were killed.

Two nights later the Indians ran upon Franks outfit and tried to take our horses.

Bob Whitehead and Pete Peck were on guard at the time, and I was sleeping on a pallet

near by. When the Indians began shooting and yelling I sat up in my bed. As I did so

an Indian, mounted on his pony, almost ran over me, firing his pistol as he ran at

Whitehead and Peck, who followed in hot pursuit. I was wide-awake by this time and ran for

a thicket barefooted and in my undergarments.

Mr. Franks and the boys drove our horses back to camp and held them in a pen for

the remainder of the night. I was beginning to get a taste of frontier life early in the

game.


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For years cattle had drifted south into Menard and Kimble counties, and Joe Franks was

one of the first of the Coleman County outfits to go south into the San Saba and Llano

country. He worked the Big and Little Saline creeks, and the Llano and San Saba rivers,

and found many of his cattle down there. By the last of November he had about finished

work for the year, and, gathering three hundred fat cows to drive to Calvert, Texas, he left

John Banister down on the Big Saline to winter the horses.

I passed through Lampasas with these cows, and saw my mother and sisters for the first

time in nine months. When we reached Bell County a cow buyer met us and bought the cows at

$10 per head. He got down off his horse, lifted a pair of saddlebags off, and counted out

$3,000 in twenty-dollar gold pieces, and hired some of the boys to help him drive the

cattle into Calvert. Mr. Franks, with most of the outfit, turned back to Lampasas. When he

settled with me, Mr. Franks owed me $200, and he handed me ten twenty-dol la r

go ld pieces. It was the most money I had ever earned, and almost the greatest amount I

had seen in my life.

I spent December and January at home, and early in February 1874, I started back to

Menard County with Mr. Franks, as he was anxious to begin work as early in the spring

as possible. When we reached Parsons Ranch on the Big Saline we learned that the Indians

had stolen all his horses, severity-five or eighty head, and he had left only eight or ten old

ponies. Mr. Franks sent Will Banister and myself back to Coleman County to pick up ten or

twelve horses he had left there the year before, while he himself returned to Lampasas and

Williamson counties to buy horses.


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This trip from Menard County to Coleman County, a distance of about one hundred

and fifty miles, was rather a hazardous trip for two boys to make alone. However, we

were both armed with new Winchesters and would have been able to put up a stiff fight if

cornered. Our ponies were poor and weak, so that it would have been impossible for us to have

escaped had we met a band of Indians, a thing we came very near doing.

There was no road from Menard to Coleman at that time, so we just traveled north. I

had cow-hunted over most of that country the year before and knew by landmarks pretty

well how to go. We reached the head of Big Brady Creek one evening while a cold north

wind was blowing. We camped for the night in the bed of a dry creek to get out of the

wind. We saddled up next morning and had not gone more than a hundred and fifty

yards from camp when we discovered where sixteen or seventeen Indians had just gone

along—at least there was that number of pony tracks. These redskins had hopped a skunk

and killed it with a chunk of wood. When we found the body it had scarcely quit bleeding.

We saw moccasin tracks, as if the savages had all got off their ponies for a few moments.

Banister and I made the trip safely, and returned to Menard County early in March.

Mr. Franks soon came with a new bunch of horses, and we went to work gathering and

delivering cattle.

About the first of June, Bee Clayton came to the outfit from Lampasas County and

told me my father had been dead more than a month. Mr. Franks settled with me and I

started for home the next day. Upon reaching Lampasas I began work with Barrett and

Nicholls outfit. They were the biggest cattle owners in that country and ran three


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large outfits , one in Llano County, one in San Saba County, and another in

Lampasas. I worked with the last-mentioned outfit that I might be near my mother and

sisters.

I had now become familiar with most aspects of frontier life. I had cow-punched

and seen Indian raids, but I had not yet met the Texas “bad man”—the murderer and the

bandit. My education was not long neglected, for it was while working with Barrett

and Nicholls that I made my acquaintance with gentry of that ilk. One day five or six

of our boys were sitting down in a circle, eating on a side of broiled calf-ribs. One of

the men, Jack Perkins, suddenly became involved in an altercation with Levi Dunbar,

and, without warning, jerked out his six-shooter and shot him to death. In rising to my feet I

had my right shoulder powder-burned by Perkins shot.

I stayed with Barrett and Nicholls until they quit work, about December 1, 1874. In

those days cattle were not worked much in the winter months, so I spent the winter at

home. By spring I had become as restless as a bear and longed to get back to the frontier.

Finally, I could stand the idleness no longer and told my mother I was going back to

Menard County to work for Mr. Franks. I reached the town of Menardville early in March,

1875. There I learned that Joe Franks was then at work on South Llano in Kimble County.

About sixty miles from Menard, Wess Ellis had just bought the Rufe Winn stock of cattle and

was ready to start on a cow-hunt. He wanted me to work for him, declaring he could pay

me as much as Joe Franks or anybody else, so I hired to him for $30 a month, the

top wages for a cowboy at that time.


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During the year I was at home a company of Texas Rangers commanded by Captain

Dan W. Roberts had been stationed over on Little Saline. This company received its

mail at Menardville, and I became acquainted with this famous organization. Their free, open

life along the frontier had fired me with longing to become one of them and join in their

adventurous lives. In the spring of 1875 the governor of Texas authorized Captain Roberts to

increase his command to fifty men. Almost immediately Captain Roberts announced in

Menardville and vicinity that he would enlist twenty good men on June first to bring his

company to full strength. Here was my opportunity, and I decided I would be one of those

twenty recruits.


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CHAPTER II

THE TEXAS RANGERS

The Texas Rangers, as an organization, dates from the spring of 1836. When the

Alamo had f a l l en be fo re the ons l augh t o f t he M ex ican troops, and the frightful

massacre had occurred, General Sam Houston organized among the settlers in the

territory a troop of sixteen hundred mounted riflemen. This company, formed for the

defense of the Texan borders, was the original Texas Ranger unit, and it is interesting to

note that from its very inception to the present moment the organization has never swerved from

that purpose—the protection of Texan borders, whether such protection be against the Indian,

the bandit, or marauding Mexicans from beyond the Rio Grande.

When the republic of Texas was organized in December 1837, the new state found

herself with an enormous frontier to protect. To the south were the hostile Mexicans, while to

the west and northwest roved the Indian and the bandit. To furnish protection against

these enemies and to form the nucleus of a national standing army the Ranger troop

was retained. During the seven years that Texas had to maintain her own independence

before she was admitted into the American Union, the Rangers repelled hordes of

Mexicans, fought the murderous Apaches, Comanches, and Kiowas, and

administered justice on a wholesale plan to numbers of outlaws and ruffians who had

flocked into the new republic from the less attractive parts of the United States.

So vital was the service rendered by the Rangers in protecting the lives and property of

the settlers along the frontiers of the state that twelve hundred Rangers were retained as


20

mounted police for patrolling the Mexican border and as a safeguard against the

savages of the Southwest. When the Civil War broke out between the North and the

South, Texas was drawn into the conflict on the side of the Confederacy. General Con

Terry, an old Ranger, organized the famous body of men known as Terry’s Texas Rangers.

This command was composed almost exclusively of ex-Rangers and frontiersmen. From

Bull Run to Appomattox this organization rendered gallant service, and lost seventy-five

per cent of its original muster roll. General Sherman, in his memoirs, speaks admiringly

of the bravery of the Rangers at the battle of Shiloh.

The return to peace, and the days of reconstruction, did not do away with the

necessity for the service which only the Ranger could render. Indian uprisings, banditry,

and cattle thievery all flourished, for the bad man confidently expected the post-war turmoil

would protect him from punishment for his misdeeds. He was to be undeceived, for the

Rangers effectively taught him that their duty was the protection of lives and property,

and right loyally did they perform it. From 1868 to 1873 the Ranger companies were

gradually reduced from one thousand to about three hundred men.

The federal government adopted a most unfortunate policy toward the Indians

after the war. The tribes were removed to reservations and rationed as public charges.

Unscrupulous dealers, in their desire for gain, illegally sold firearms to the Indians, and

whenever a redskin massacred a frontiersman he was sure to capture good weapons, so that

they soon became well armed and very expert in handling their new weapons. As no attempt

was made to confine them to the reservation limits, the redskins, under their native


21

chiefs, were continually sneaking off and raiding western Texas. They stole thousands

of horses and cattle, and did not hesitate to murder and scalp the defenseless people along the

frontier. Numbers of women and children were carried off as captives, only a very small

proportion of whom were subsequently ransomed. Repeated complaints to

Washington brought no redress. Indeed, some of the government officials calmly declared

that the Indians were doing no harm—it was white men disguised as redskins that caused

the trouble!

In 1874 conditions along the frontier had become so acute that the need for an

organized mounted police for the protection of the settlers against the continued Indian

raids became apparent. As in the past, the state looked again to her Rangers. Early in 1874,

during the administration of Richard Coke, the first Democratic governor since secession, the

legislature appropriated $300,000 for frontier defense, thus authorizing the

formation of the Texas Rangers as now constituted. The governor immediately issued

a call for four hundred and fifty volunteers. These were formed into six companies of

seventy-five men each. Each of these units was officered by a captain and a first and second

lieutenant. The companies were designated A, B, C, D, E, and F, and received the official

name of the Frontier Battalion of Texas Rangers. John B. Jones of Corsicana, Texas,

was commissioned major of the command. At this time the captains received a salary of

$100 per month, lieutenants $75, sergeants $50, and corporals and privates $40.

Subsequently, as the legislature continually sliced into the Ranger appropriation, the pay of


22

privates was reduced to $30 a month, a mere pittance for the hazardous service demanded of

them.

Early in 1874 the force took the field, and each company was assigned a definite

territory along the frontier. Company A, being the northernmost company, was

camped on the main fork of the Brazos River; Company F, the southernmost, was

stationed on the Nueces River. The four remaining companies were posted along the

line between these two commands about one hundred and twenty-five miles apart, so

that the battalion of four hundred and fifty men was required to cover a frontier of

between five and six hundred miles.

Major Jones was a very able commander and he quickly won the confidence of his men

and of the people along the border he was sent to protect. The frontiersmen cooperated

with him in every way possible, sending runners to the various Ranger camps

whenever an Indian trail was found or a bunch of horses stolen. During the first six

months of service nearly every company in the battalion had an Indian fight, and

some of them two or three. The battalion finally cleared the Texas frontier of the

redskins and then turned its attention to the other pests of the state—thieves,

bandits, and fugitives from justice. In this work the Rangers rendered service second to

none, and became in an incredibly short time perhaps the most famous and efficient

body of mounted police in the world.

In the eighteen years from 1865 to 1883 the Texas Rangers followed one hundred and

twenty-eight Indian raiding parties, and fought the redskins in eighty-four pitched


23

battles. During this same period they recovered six thousand stolen horses and cattle

and rescued three citizens carried off by Indians. In this period twelve Rangers were killed.

Despite this record of service, the legislature at Austin could not always be made to see

the advantage—nay, the necessity—of a Ranger force, and it was continually

tinkering with the appropriations for the support of the battalion. When the appropriation

was small the command was reduced to keep within the expenditure doled out by the

parsimonious solons; whenever the lawmakers could be prevailed upon to increase the

annual Ranger budget, it was recruited to full strength.

By 1885 conditions had changed. Texas was no longer endangered by

Indians, for the Rangers had done much to convert the red devils into good Indians—

that is, into dead ones. Although the Indians had disappeared from the state, the activities of

the Rangers did not cease. The white “bad man” who had stirred up the first Indian

troubles now began to plunder and murder his own race and indulge in every form of

lawlessness. From hunting the murderous redskins the Rangers became now stalkers

of the man-killers and those who despoiled their neighbors of their property. The local

legal authorities could not or would not handle this task themselves, so the Rangers were

made peace officers and given the right of arrest without warrant in any part of the state.

They then became mounted constables to quell disorder, prevent crime, and bring criminals

to justice and assist the duly constituted authorities in every way possible. This new

work was less romantic than the old Indian warfare, but it was every bit as dangerous and as

necessary in the building up of the fast-developing state. As in every other task


24

assigned him the Ranger did his duty fearlessly and well. In the years 1889-1890 the

Rangers arrested five hundred and seventy-nine persons, among them seventy-six

murderers. With the coming of the railroads the Rangers began to use them, as they

permitted more speed and the covering of greater distances than was possible on

horseback. Moreover, commands could be dispatched from one part of the state to

another as occasion demanded. This greater mobility led to larger usefulness and an increasing

number of arrests by the Ranger forces.

The outbreak of the war with Spain found the Rangers ready and anxious for

service in the defense of the Union. Many enlisted in Roosevelt’s famous Rough Riders.

“I have heard from the lips of reliable Rangers,” declared General Miles, in

speaking of the Ranger service in Cuba, “tales of daring that are incomparable. It is,

indeed, too bad that the world knows so little about those marvelous men. There have

been hosts of men among the Texas Rangers who were just as nervy as Davy Crockett,

Travis, or Bowie at the Alamo.”

Sketchy as has been this history, it discloses a record of continuous duty throughout

the half century of the Ranger battalion’s existence in guarding the lives, the liberty, and the

property of Texas citizens. And the Ranger has been content to perform this duty

unheralded and almost unsung. Performance of duty, it matters not where it may lead

him, into whatever desperate situation or howsoever dangerous the thing demanded, has

always been the slogan of the organization. For courage, patriotic devotion, instant


25

obedience, and efficiency, the record of the Texas Rangers has been excelled by no body

of constabulary ever mustered.

Though formed into military units and officered as a soldier, the Ranger is not a

military man, for scant attention is paid to military law and precedent. The state furnishes

food for the men, forage for their horses, ammunition, and medical attendance. The

Ranger himself must furnish his horse, his accoutrements, and his arms. There is, then,

no uniformity in the matter of dress, for each Ranger is free to dress as he pleases and in

the garb experience has taught him most convenient for utility and comfort. A Ranger,

as any other frontiersman or cowboy, usually wears heavy woolen clothes of any color that

strikes his fancy. Some are partial to corduroy suits, while others prefer buckskin. A felt hat

of any make and color completes his outfit. While riding, a Ranger always wears spurs

and very high-heeled boots to prevent his foot from slipping through the stirrup, for

both the Ranger and the cowboy ride with the stirrup in the middle of the foot. For

arms, the Ranger after 1877 carried a Winchester rifle or carbine, a Colt’s .45 revolver, and

a bowie knife. Two cartridge belts, one for Winchester and one for revolver ammunition,

completed his equipment, and thus armed he was ready to mount and ride.

“We live in the saddle and the sky is our roof,” say the old Rangers, and this is

literally true. The Rangers are perfect centaurs and almost live in the saddle. They take

horse where they will and may arrest or search in any part of the state. There is very little of

what a West Point graduate would call drill. A Ranger is expected to be a good rider and a

quick and accurate shot. No crack cavalryman in any army can mount a horse more quickly


26

or more expertly than a Ranger, and he can keep a constant stream of fire pouring

from his carbine when his horse is going at top speed, and hit the mark nine times out

of ten. Should a Ranger drop on the ground anything that he wants he does not even

check the speed of his horse, but, bending from the saddle as if he were made of India

rubber, he picks up the object in full gallop.

When not on active duty the Rangers amuse themselves in various ways. Some

play cards, others hunt, while the studious spend their time over books and good literature.

Horse racing is popular, and the fastest horse in the company is soon spotted, for the

Rangers match their mounts one against the other. At night around their campfires

the men are constantly telling stories of adventures that put to shame all the inventions

of the writers of imaginative fiction. But when on duty all this is changed. No pace is too

quick, no task too difficult or too hazardous for them. Night and day will the Ranger trail

his prey, through rain and shine, until the criminal is located and put behind the bars

where he will not again molest or disturb peaceful citizens. For bravery, endurance, and

steadfast adherence to duty at all times the Ranger is in a class by himself. Such was the old

Ranger, and such is the Ranger of today.


27

CHAPTER III

I JOIN THE TEXAS RANGERS

The fame of the Rangers had, of course, become c o m m o n k n o w l e d g e a m o n g a l l

T e x a n s . T h e i r de e d s o f a dv e n t u r e a n d t h e i r o p e n , a t t r a c t i v e life along the

frontier appealed to me, and I had conceived the desire to enlist in the battalion. But

the enlistment, as announced by Captain Roberts, would not be made until June 1,

1875, and I reached Menardville early in March. I had intended going on to join Mr.

Franks’s outfit, but, as I have already explained, I hired out to Mr. Ellis until I could enlist

in Captain Roberts company.

About the middle of May 1875, Joe Franks had worked back into Menard County.

I wished to see my old friends in his outfit, and so went over to meet them. While there I

mentioned that I was going to join the Rangers. A cowboy named Norman Rodgers, who

was working for Mr. Franks, said he would also like to join, so we decided we would go over

to Captain Roberts together and see if we couldn’t get him to recruit us in his company.

Rodgers and I rode over to the Ranger camp beyond Menardville. Neither of us had

ever been in such a camp before nor did we know anyone in the company. Of the first

Ranger we met we inquired where we could find the captain. His tent was pointed out to us

and we went toward it.

“Jim,” said Norman as we approached the tent, “you will have to do the talking.”

Captain Roberts met us as we came up and invited us to be seated. I told him at once

that we had come to enlist as Rangers. He asked us our names, where we were working, and


28

finally inquired if we had anyone that would recommend us. We had not thought of

references, but told him that probably Mr. Franks or Mr. Ellis would stand for us, as

they were well-known and prominent cattlemen for whom we had worked.

Captain Roberts looked straight at me and said, “You say your name was Gillett?”

“Yes, Jim Gillett,” I replied.

He then asked me where I was born, and I told him at Austin, Texas.

“Are you a son of James S. Gillett who was adjutant general under Governor Sam

Houston?”

I told him I was.

“I have often heard my father, Buck Roberts, speak of your father,” he said in a friendly

tone.

Captain Roberts then asked us what kind of horses we had, telling us that a Ranger

was required to have a good mount, for each man was allowed to have only one horse, which

had to be a good one, that could be ridden every day for a month if necessary. I told him I

had two good pony mares. He burst out laughing, and said a mare was not allowed in the

service. He told us to go and see what kind of mounts we could get, and then come back

and let him inspect the animals. He never once said he would accept us, but as the interview was

now over and he had not refused us we went back to camp feeling very hopeful we would

soon be Rangers.

I secured a big black pony and Norman a gray one, as large as mine but a much

prettier horse. We returned to the Ranger camp a few days later mounted on these ponies. The


29

captain looked them over, said they their small but that he would accept them, and told

us to be at his camp by May thirty-first to be sworn into the service. We left camp

that evening all puffed up at the prospect of being Texas Rangers.

The last day of May arrived. Norman Rodgers and myself, with many other recruits

we had never seen before, were at the Ranger camp. On June 1, 1875, at ten o’clock we were

formed in line, mounted, and the oath of allegiance to the state of Texas was read to us by

Captain Roberts. When we had all signed this oath we were pronounced Texas Rangers. This

was probably the happiest day of my life, for in joining the Rangers I had realized one

of my greatest ambitions.

Immediately after being sworn in the men were divided into messes, ten men

to the mess, and issued ten days rations by the orderly sergeant. These consisted of flour,

bacon, coffee, sugar, beans, rice, pepper, salt, and soda. No potatoes, syrup, or lard was

furnished, and each man had to supply his own cooking utensils. To shorten our bread we

used bacon grease. Beef was sometimes supplied the men, but wild game was so plentiful

that but l i t t le other meat was required. Furthermore, each recruit was furnished a

Sharps carbine, .50 caliber, and one .45 Colt’s pistol. These arms were charged to us, their

cost to be deducted from our first pay. Our salary of $40 per month was paid in quarterly

installments. The state also supplied provender for the horses.

Though a Ranger was forced to supply his own mount, the state undertook to

pay for the animal if it were killed or lost in an Indian fight. To establish impartially the

value of our animals, Captain Roberts marched us into Menardville and asked three


30

citizens of the town to place a value on each man’s mount. This was done, and I was highly

gratified when old Coley, my mount, was appraised at $125. This formality over, the

company was moved from Little Saline to Camp Las Moras, five miles southwest of

Menardville, Texas. We were now ready to begin scouting for Indians.

As is usual under similar circumstances, the new recruits came in for their share

of pranks and mishaps. One raw rookie in my mess, fired with love of economy, undertook

to cook ten days rations for the whole mess at one time. He put a quantity of rice on the

fire. Soon it began to boil and swell, and that surprised Ranger found his rice increasing

to unheard-of proportions. He filled every cooking vessel in the mess with half-cooked rice, and

still the kettle continued to overflow. In desperation he finally began to pour it on the

ground. Even then he had enough rice cooked to supply the entire company.

Another recruit, anxious to test his new weapons, obtained Captain Roberts’

permission to go hunting. He had not gone far from camp when he began firing at some

squirrels. One of his bullets struck the limb of a tree and whizzed close to camp. This

gave an old Ranger an idea. He hastened after the hunter and gravely arrested him,

declaring that the glancing bullet had struck a man in camp and that Captain Roberts

had ordered the careless hunter’s arrest. The veteran brought in a pale and badly-scared

recruit.

One of the favorite diversions of the old Rangers was to make a newcomer believe

that the state furnished the Rangers with socks and start him off to the captain’s tent to

demand his share of free hosiery. The captain took these pranks in good part and assured


31

the crestfallen applicant that the Rangers were only playing a joke on him, while his

tormentors enjoyed his discomfiture from a safe distance.

When they had run out of jokes the men settled down to the regular routine of

camp. Each morning the orderly sergeant had roll call, at which time he always detailed six or

eight men with a non-commissioned officer to take charge of the Rangers horses and

the pack mules until relieved the following morning by a new guard. The guard was

mounted and armed and drove the loose stock out to graze. The horses were never

taken far from camp for fear of being attacked by Indians, and also to keep them near at

hand in case they were needed quickly.

The Rangers not on guard spent their time as they wished when not on duty, but no

man could leave the camp without the captain’s permission. The boys played such

games as appealed to them, horseshoe pitching and cards being the favorite

diversions. As long as it did not interfere with a man’s duty as a Ranger, Captain

Roberts permitted pony racing, and some exciting contests took place between rival

horse owners. Besides these diversions hunting and fishing were always available, for the

woods and streams were stocked with game and fish.

I soon had cause to congratulate myself on my enlistment in Company D, for I found

Captain D. W. Roberts the best of company commanders. At the time I joined his

command he was thirty-five years of age, very slender, and perhaps a little over six feet tall.

His beard and hair were dark auburn. He always dressed neatly and was kind and affable in

manner, looking more like the dean of an eastern college than the great captain he was.


32

Captain Roberts was a fine horseman and a good shot with both pistol and rifle.

He was also a fine violinist, and often played for the boys. He had been raised on the

frontier and had won such a reputation as an Indian fighter that the state legislature

presented him with a fine Winchester rifle for his gallantry in fighting the redskins.

The captain had made a close study of the habits and actions of the Indians, and their life was

an open book to him. This, of course, gave him a great advantage in following and fighting

them, and under his able leadership Company D became famous. There was not a man in the

company who did not consider it a compliment to be detailed on a scout with Captain

Roberts.

In the latter part of the summer or early fall of 1875, Captain Roberts visited Colorado

County, Texas, and returned with a bride, a Miss Lou Conway. Mrs. Roberts was a refined

and elegant lady, and soon adapted herself to the customs of the camp. She was with her husband

on the San Saba River during the winter of 1875-1876 and soon became as popular with the

company as Captain Roberts himself.

Most people would consider the life of the Texas Ranger hard and dangerous, but

I never found it so. In the first place, the Ranger was always with a body of well-armed men,

which was more than a match for any enemy that might be met. Then, there was an element

of danger about it that appealed to any red-blooded American. All of western Texas was a

real frontier then, and for one who loved nature and God’s own creation, it was a

paradise on earth. The hills and valleys were teeming with deer and turkeys, thousands of buffalo

and antelope were on the plains, and the streams all over Texas were full of fish. Bear caves and


33

bee trees abounded. In the springtime one could travel for hundreds of miles on a bed of

flowers. Oh, how I wish I had the power to describe the wonderful country as I saw it then!

How happy I am now in my old age that I am a native Texan and saw the grand frontier

before it was marred by the hand of man.

The Lipan, Kickapoo, Comanche, and Kiowa Indians used to time their raids so as to

reach the Texas settlements during the light of the moon so they would have moonlight nights

in which to steal horses and make their getaway before they could be discovered. By

morning, when their thefts became known, they would have a long lead ahead and be well

on their way into the plains and mountains. The captains of the Ranger companies knew of

this Indian habit, and accordingly kept scouts constantly in the field during the period of the

raids. The redskins, coming in from the plains where water was scarce, generally took the near

cut to the headwaters of the Colorado, Concho, San Saba, Llano, Guadalupe, and Nueces

rivers. By maintaining scouts at or near the heads of these streams the Rangers frequently

caught parties of Indians going in or coining out from the settlements, and destroyed

them or recaptured the stolen stock.

The first light moon in June Captain Roberts ordered a detail of fifteen men in

command of Sergeant James B. Hawkins to make a ten days scout toward the headwaters

of the North Llano River. He was to select a secluded spot near old Fort Territ and make

camp there. Each morning a scout of one or two men would be sent out ten or fifteen miles

to the south and another party a like distance toward the north to hunt for Indian


34

trails. The main body of Rangers, keeping carefully concealed, was in readiness to

take up an Indian trail at a moment’s notice, should one be found by the scouts.

One morning Sergeant Hawkins ordered me to travel south from camp to the

head draws of the South Llano and watch for pony tracks.

“Suppose the Indians get me?” I asked, laughingly, as I mounted my pony.

“It’s your business to keep a sharp lookout and not let them catch you,” he replied.

However, though I watched very carefully, I could find no pony tracks or Indian trails.

We had with us on this scout Mike Lynch, an Irishman. Though he was old and

gray-headed, he was a good Ranger, and had much native wit. One morning it was Uncle

Mike’s turn to go on scout duty, but in a few hours he was seen coming into camp with his horse,

Possum, on the jump. He reported a fresh Indian trail about ten miles north of our

camp. When asked how many pony tracks he had seen, Lynch declared he had counted

seventeen and thought there were more. As the Indians usually came in on foot or with as

few ponies as they could get along on until they could steal others, Sergeant Hawkins

suspected the tracks Lynch had seen were those of mustangs. The excited scout declared

vehemently that the tracks were not those of wild horses but of Indians. The sergeant

was just as positive that no Indian party was responsible for the trail, and the two had

quite a heated argument over the tracks.

“But how do you know it is an Indian trail?” demanded Hawkins.

“Because I know,” cried Lynch in a loud voice.


35

That sett led it . Horses were saddled and mules packed as quickly as possible,

and the Rangers marched over to the suspicious trail. When Sergeant Hawkins examined

it he soon perceived that the sign had been made by mustangs but he could not

convince the hardheaded Irishman of this fact until he had followed the trail two or

three miles and showed him the mustang herd quietly grazing under some shade

trees. Uncle Mike did not mention Indian trail any more on that scout. Though we did

not find any trails or Indians the scouting party killed two black bears, several deer, and about

fifteen wild turkeys.

Early in September 1875, Captain Roberts again ordered Sergeant Hawkins to

take fifteen men and make a ten days scout on the Brady Mountains. To my great joy I

was detailed on this expedition. When near the head of Scalp Creek, Menard County,

on our return trip, the sergeant told the boys to keep a sharp lookout for a deer, as we

would reach the San Saba by noon and would camp on that stream for the night. We had

not traveled far before Ed Seiker killed a nice little spiked buck. We strapped him on

one of the pack mules, and when we arrived at the river we came upon a flock of half-

grown wild turkeys. Bill Clements leaped from his horse and killed six of them.

We then camped, hobbled and sidelined our horses, and put a strong guard with them.

While some of the boys were gathering wood for our fire they found an old elm stump

ten to twelve feet high, with bees going in at the top. One of the Rangers rode over to Rufe

Winn’s Ranch and borrowed an ax and a bucket. When he returned we cut the tree and got

more honey than sixteen men could eat, besides filling the bucket with honey, which we


36

gave to Mrs. Winn in return for the use of her ax. Then, after dinner, out came fishing

tackle and, using venison for bait, we caught more catfish than the entire crowd could eat.

Hunting conditions in those days were ideal. I have known a single scout to kill three or

four bears on a single trip. The companies to the north of us were never out of buffalo meat in a

season. Then, in the fall, one could gather enough pecans, as fine as ever grew, in half a day to

last the company a month. I have seen hundreds of bushels of the nuts go to waste because there

was no one to gather them—besides they sold on the market for fifty cents per bushel. No

wonder that a boy who loved the woods and nature was charmed and fascinated with the life of a

Texas Ranger. It was a picnic for me from start of finish, and the six years I was with the

battalion were the happiest and most interesting in my life.

But hunting and fishing and vacation scouts were not the sole duties of a Ranger.

Pleasure was abundant, but there were times when all these things were laid aside. For the game

guns and the fishing rod we exchanged our carbines and our six-shooters and engaged in

hazardous expeditions after marauding Indians. I was soon to experience this aspect of Ranger

life, for in the latter part of August 1875, I became a real Ranger and entered upon the real work

of our battalion—that of protecting the frontier against the roving Indians and engaging them in

regular pitched battles.


37

CHAPTER IV

MY FIRST BRUSH WITH INDIANS

The latter part of August 1875, Private L. P. Seiker was sent on detached duty to Fort

Mason, about fifty miles due east of our camp. While there a runner came in from Honey Creek

with the report that a band of fifteen Indians had raided the John Gamble ranch and stolen some

horses within twenty-five steps of the ranch house. The redskins appeared on their raid late in the

evening and the runner reached Mason just at dark.

Lam Seiker had just eaten his summer and was sitting in the lobby of the Frontier Hotel

when the message came. He hurried to the livery stable, saddled his horse, Old Pete, and started

on an all-night ride for the company. The nights of August are short, but Seiker rode into our

camp about eight o’clock the following morning and reported the presence of the Indians.

The company horses were out under herd for the day, but Captain Roberts send out hurry

orders for them. Sergeant Plumb Murray was ordered to detail fifteen men, issue them ten days

rations and one hundred rounds of ammunition each. Second Sergeant Jim Hawkins, Privates

Paul Durham, Nick Donnelly, Tom Gillespie, Mike Lynch, Andy Wilson, Henry Maltimore, Jim

Trout, William Kimoborough, Silas B. Crump, Ed Seiker, Jim Day, John Cupps, and myself,

under command of Captain Roberts, were selected as the personnel of the scout. As can be

imagined, I was delighted with my good fortune in getting on the party and looked forward with

intense satisfaction to my first brush with Indians.

The mules were soon packed and by the time the horses reached camp the scout

was ready. Sergeant Hawkins, as soon as the men had saddled their horses, walked over to


38

the captain, saluted, and told him the scout was ready. Before leaving camp Captain

Roberts called to Sergeant Murray and told him that he believed the Indians had about as

many horses as they could well get away with, and that they would probably cross the

San Saba River near the mouth of Scalp Creek and follow the high divide

between the two streams on their westward march back into the plains. If the redskins

did not travel that way the captain thought they would go up the Big Saline, follow

the divide between the North Llano and San Saba rivers westward, and escape, but he

was confident the band would travel up the divide north of Menardville. He

determined to scout that way himself, and instructed Murray to send two Rangers south

over to the headwaters of Bear Creek to keep a sharp lookout for the trail. These two

scouts were to repeat their operations the next day, and if they discovered the Indian

trail Murray was to make up a second scout and follow the redskins vigorously.

His plan outlined, Captain Roberts gave the order to mount and we rode toward

Menardville, making inquiry about the Indians. All was quiet at this little frontier

village, so we crossed the San Saba River just below the town and after passing the ruins

of the Spanish fort Captain Roberts halted his men and prepared to send out trailers.

Two of the best trailers in the command were ordered to proceed about four hundred yards

ahead of the party and keep a close watch for pony tracks while they traveled due

north at a good saddle-horse gait. The main body of men, under the captain himself,

would follow directly behind the outposts.


39

Our party had traveled about eight or nine miles when Captain Roberts’ keen eyes

discovered a lone pony standing with his head down straight ahead of us. He sighted the

animal before the trailers did, and remarked to us that there the trail was. The outposts

halted when they saw the pony and waited for us to come up. Sure enough, here

was the Indian trail , probably twenty yards wide. Captain Roberts dismounted

and walked over the sign scrutinizing every pony track, bunch of grass, and fallen

leaf. He then examined the old pony. The animal was cut with a lance, with his back sore

and his feet all worn out. It was then between twelve and one o’clock, and the captain

thought the Indians had passed that way about sunrise, for the blood and sweat on the

horse were now dry. The trail showed the raiders were driving rather fast and were

probably thirty-five or forty miles ahead of us. The captain decided it would be a long

chase and that we would have to walk them down if we caught them at all.

There was no water on this divide so we took the trail without stopping for dinner.

Captain Roberts had a fine saddle horse, old Rock, and we followed the trail a t a

s teady gai t of f ive or s ix miles an hour . At sundown we reached the old

government road that runs from Fort McKavett to Fort Concho. We were then about

twelve or fifteen miles south of Kickapoo Springs, so we turned up the road, reaching the

springs late at night. The horses had not had a drop of water since leaving the San

Saba that morning, and, facing a hot August sun all day, the men were pretty well tired

out when they reached camp, had supper and got to bed. We estimated we had

ridden about sixty miles since leaving camp. During the day Captain Roberts’ horse


40

cast a shoe, so Tom Gillespie shod him by firelight, as it was the captain’s intention

to resume the trail at daylight.

The following morning Captain Roberts took a southwest course from

Kickapoo Springs and paralleled the Indian trail we had left the evening before. It

was late in the day before we picked the trail up again, and many of the boys were

afraid we had lost it altogether, but the captain laughed at their fears and never

doubted that we should find it again. The Indians, as their trail showed, were now

traveling over a tolerably rough country, which made our progress slow. About noon we found

some rainwater, and camped for dinner and to give the horses a short rest.

When the boys went out to catch their mounts we found that we had camped in a

bed of rattlesnakes. Two of our horses had been bitten. Jim Day’s Chico had a head as

big as a barrel, while the captain’s horse, old Rock, had been bitten on his front leg

just above the ankle, and it had swollen up to his body. Neither of the animals was able to

walk. Jim Day could not be left alone in that Indian country, so Captain Roberts

detailed Private Cupps to stay with him until the horses died or were able to travel; in

either case they were then to return to camp. The animals soon recovered and Day and

Cupps beat us back to camp.

The pack loads were now doubled on one mule so Captain Roberts could ride the other.

Reduced to thirteen men, we followed the Indians until night. It was a hard day on both

men and beasts, so we camped where we found a little water in a draw that drained into the

South Concho River. Considering the way we had come the captain thought we had


41

covered sixty miles during the day’s ride. We had two rather old men on the scout,

Mike Lynch and Andy Wilson, and they were nearly all in. I awoke Andy at two o’clock

to go on guard. The poor fellow was so stiff he could hardly stand, and I tried to get him to

go back to bed, telling him I would stand his guard, but he was game, and in a few minutes

limped out to the horses and relieved me.

Early in the morning we were up and traveling. The mule Captain Roberts was

riding did not step out as fast as old Rock had done, and the boys had an easier time

keeping up. We camped at noon on just enough rainwater to do us and took up the trail again

after dinner. The trailers stopped suddenly, and as we rode up Captain Roberts asked

what was the matter. They said it seemed as though the Indians at this point had

rounded up the horses and held them for some cause or other.

The captain dismounted and swept the country with his field glasses. He circled

around where the horses had been standing and found where a lone Indian had walked

straight away from the animals. He followed the tracks to an old live oak tree that had

been blown down. Then the reason for the stop became apparent. The Indians had

sighted a herd of mustangs grazing just beyond this tree and the redskin had slipped

up on them and killed a big brown mare. Captain Roberts picked up the cartridge shell the

brave had used and found it to be from a .50 caliber buffalo gun. We also found the mustang,

from which the Indians had cut both sides of ribs and one hindquarter.

Captain Roberts was much elated. “Boys,” he said with a smile, “we now have

ninety-five chances out of a hundred to catch those Indians. They will not carry this raw


42

meat long before stopping to cook some. We have followed them now over one

hundred and fifty miles, and they have never stopped to build a fire. They are tired and

hungry and probably know where there is water not far away.”

He spoke with such confidence that I marveled at his knowledge of the Indian habits.

We were now on the extreme western draw of the South Concho River, far above the

point at which the water breaks out into a running stream. Finally, the trail led out on that

level and vast tract of country between the head of South Concho and the Pecos on the

west. Here the Indians had turned a little north from the general direction they had

been traveling, and all of a sudden we came to some rock holes filled with rainwater.

Here the redskins had built three fires, cooked both sides of the mustang ribs, and picked

them clean. From this high tableland they could look back over their trail for fifteen miles.

The captain thought they had been there early in the morning, as the fires were out and

the ashes cold. We did not lose any time at this camp, but hurried on, following the trail until late

in the evening, when the trailers again halted. When we came up we found that the trail,

which had been going west for nearly two hundred miles, had suddenly turned straight north.

Captain Roberts seemed to be puzzled for a time, and said he did not understand

this move. About one mile north there was a small grove of mesquite timber. This he

examined through his glasses, seeming to me to examine each tree separately. The trail led

straight into these trees, and we followed it. In the mesquite timber we found the Indians

had hacked some bushes partly down, bent them over, cut up the horse meat they had been

carrying with them into tiny strips, strung it on the bushes and, building a fire beneath them,


43

had barbecued their flesh. The redskins had made the prettiest scaffold for cooking meat I

ever saw. We found plenty of fire here, and the captain was sure we would have an Indian fight

on the morrow.

From the trees the trail swung west again. The redskins were traveling slowly now,

as they evidently thought they were out of danger. Just before sundown the scout halted,

and we were ordered not to let any smoke go up lest the band we were trailing should spot it

and take alarm. As soon as we had cooked our supper Captain Roberts had the fires carefully

extinguished. It had been a good season on the tablelands and there were many ponds filled

with water, some of them one hundred yards wide. We camped on the edge of one of these

big holes, and where the Indians had waded into it the water was still muddy. The boys

were cautioned not to strike a match that night as we were certain the Indians were not

far ahead of us. We had covered between forty and fifty miles that day.

Camp was called at daybreak. We dared not build a fire, so we had no breakfast. We

saddled our horses and again took the trail. Old Jennie, the pack mule, was packed for the

last time on earth, for she was killed in the fight that shortly followed. As soon as it was

light enough to see a pony track two of the boys traced it on foot and led their horses,

the remainder of our party coming along slowly on horseback. By sunrise we were all

riding and following the trail rapidly, eager to sight the marauding thieves. We had

traveled some five or six miles when Paul Durham called Captain Roberts’ attention

to a dark object ahead that looked as if it were moving. The captain brought his field

glasses to bear on the object specified and exclaimed it was the Indians.


44

He ordered the boys to dismount at once, tighten their cinches, leave their coats

and slickers, and make ready to fight. As we carried out this order a distressing stillness

came over the men. Captain Roberts and Sergeant Hawkins were the only ones of our

party who had ever been in an Indian fight, and I suppose the hearts of all of us green,

unseasoned warriors beat a little more rapidly than usual at the prospect of soon

smelling powder. Captain Roberts called out to us in positive tones not to leave him

until he told us to go, and not to draw a gun or pistol until ordered, declaring that he

wanted no mistake made on the eve of battle. He ordered the pack mule caught and

led until we went into the fight, when she was to be turned loose.

The Indians were on an open prairie dotted here and there with small groves of

mesquite timber. The captain thought our only chance was to ride double file straight

at them in the hope they would not look back and discover us. We moved forward

briskly and got within four or five hundred yards of the redskins before they sighted us.

At once there was a terrible commotion. It was the custom of the plains Indians, when

they had stolen a lot of horses, for each to select from the number the best pony he

could pick out, and tying a rope around its neck, let the pony drag it along the ground.

In case of discovery the braves would quickly leap from the pony they were riding, grab the

rope of the fresh one, and mounting it bareback, escape from their pursuers. On catching

sight of us they performed this maneuver almost in the twinkling of an eye; then, led by

their old chief, they took positions on a little elevated ground some two hundred yards

beyond the loose horses. They stationed themselves about fifteen or twenty feet apart, their


45

battle line when formed being about one hundred yards long. As each warrior took his station

he dismounted, stood behind his horse, and prepared to fire when given the signal.

The captain with a smile turned to us and said, “Boys, they are going to fight us.

See how beautifully the old chief forms his line of battle.” From a little boy I had longed to

be a Ranger and fight the Indians. At last I was up against the real thing and with not so

much as an umbrella behind which to hide. I was nervous. I was awfully nervous.

We were now within one hundred steps of the redskins. Then came the order to

dismount, shoot low, and kill as many horses as possible. The captain said as we came up

that every time we got an Indian on foot in that country we were sure to kill him. With the first

shot everybody, Indians and Rangers, began firing and yelling.

In a minute we had killed two horses and one Indian was seen to be badly wounded. In

another minute the redskins had mounted their horses and were fleeing in every direction.

Captain Roberts now ordered us to mount and follow them. The roar of the guns

greatly excited my pony and he turned round and round. I lost a little time in mounting,

but when I did get settled in the saddle I saw an Indian running on foot. He carried a

Winchester in his hand and waved to another Indian who was riding. The latter turned

and took the one on foot up behind him. As they started away for a race I thought to

myself that no grass-fed pony on earth could carry two men and get away from me

and old Coley. The Indians had a good animal, but I gradually closed on them. The

redskin riding behind would point his gun back and fire at me, holding it in one hand. I

retaliated by firing at him every time I could get a cartridge in my old Sharps


46

carbine. I looked back and saw Ed Seiker coming to my aid as fast as old Dixie would

run. He waved encouragement to me.

Finally, the old brave ceased shooting, and as I drew a little closer he held out his gun

at arm’s length and let it drop, probably thinking I would stop to .get it. I gave it but a

passing glance as I galloped by. He then held out what looked to be a fine rawhide

rope and dropped that, but I never took the bait. I just kept closing in on him. He now

strung his bow and began using his arrows pretty freely. Finally, he saw I was going to catch

him, and turned quickly into a little grove of mesquite timber. I was considered a

fairly good brush rider, and as we went in among the trees I drew up within twenty steps

of the brave, jumped from my mount, and made a sort of random shot at the horse, Indian, and

all. The big .50 caliber bullet struck the Indian pony just where its head coupled on its neck,

passed through the head and came out over the left eye. It killed the horse at once, which fell

forward twenty feet.

The old warr ior hi t the ground running, but I jumped on my horse and ran

after him. As I passed the dead horse I saw the front rider struggling to get from under it.

To my surprise I saw he was a white boy between fifteen and sixteen years old with long,

bright red hair.

By this time Ed Seiker had arrived and was dismounting. The fugitive warrior

now peeped from behind a tree and I got a fine shot at his face but overshot him six

inches, cutting off a limb just over his head. He broke to run again, and as he came into

view Ed placed a bullet between his shoulders. He was dead in a minute. When Ed and I


47

walked up to the dead Indian we found he had also been shot in one ankle and his bow

had been partly shot in two. In his quiver he had only three arrows left.

We hurried back to the dead horse to help the white boy, but he had extricated

himself and disappeared. We then returned to the dead warrior and Seiker scalped him.

We took his bow, shield, and a fine pair of moccasins. I also found a fine lance near where the

horse fell, and I presume it was carried by the white boy. We found the redskin had no

Winchester cartridges, and this was why he dropped the gun—he could not carry it and

use his bow. We went back over the trail, but were unable to find the gun the brave had

dropped as a bait.

By noon that day the boys had all returned to where the fight had begun and the

Indian horses had been left. Jim Hawkins and Paul Durham captured a Mexican boy about

fifteen years old. He looked like an Indian, had long plaited hair down his back, was

bareheaded, and wore moccasins and a breechclout. Had he been in front of me I would

surely have killed him for a redskin. Captain Roberts spoke Spanish fluently, and

from this boy he learned that the Indians were Apaches. He was taken back to our camp,

and finally his uncle came and took him home. He had been captured while herding oxen

near old Fort Clark, Texas, and an elder brother, who was with him at the time, had been

killed.

The boys were then sent back by Captain Roberts to find the white lad who had

been with the Indian Seiker had killed. Though we searched carefully we could find no

trace of the mysterious youngster. Forty-nine years later I met this boy, now an old


48

man, at a reunion of the Old Time Trail Drivers’ Association in San Antonio, and

learned that his name was F. H. Lehman. He had been captured by the Indians in

Mason County some years before our encounter, and had now become one of them. He

had hidden in the grass while the Rangers were hunting him, and after they gave up

the search and disappeared he had followed on the trail of the Indians until he rejoined

them.

When the Rangers had all gathered after the fight our pack mule, Jennie, was

missing. We supposed that in the run she had followed the Indians off. Six months later Ed

Seiker was detailed to pilot a body of United States soldiers over that same country to

pick out a road to the Pecos River. He visited our old battlefield and found Jennie’s

carcass. She had a bullet hole in the center of her forehead. The Indians in shooting

back at their attackers probably hit her with a chance shot. The packsaddle was still strapped

to her body, but wolves had eaten all the supplies. Five hundred rounds of ammunition were

still with her, showing that no one had seen her since the day of her death.

Lacking Jennie’s supplies, we had nothing to eat except the barbecued horsemeat we

had captured from the Indians. This had no salt on it, and I could not swallow it. In the fight

we killed three horses and one Indian and captured the Mexican lad. At least two

redskins were badly wounded, and as victors we captured fifty-eight head of horses and

mules, several Indian saddles and bridles, and many native trinkets. Not a man or a

horse of our party was hurt, the pack mule being our only fatality. Captain Roberts


49

said that but for the inability of our hard ridden horses to overtake the fresh mounts of the

Indians, not a soul of them would have escaped us.

We turned our faces homeward, hungry and tired but highly elated over our

success. The second day after the fight we reached Wash Delong’s ranch on the headwaters

of the South Concho River. Mr. Delong, a fine frontiersman, killed a beef for us and

furnished us with flour and coffee without cost. Three days later we were back at our camp

at Las Moras. The stolen animals were returned to their owners, and thus ended my first

campaign against the Indians.


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CHAPTER V

THE MASON COUNTY WAR

Soon after our return from our first brush with Indians we were introduced to yet

another phase of Ranger activity—the quieting of feuds, for not only were the Rangers

employed in protecting the frontiers against the Indians, but they were also frequently

called upon to preserve law and order within the towns and cities of the state. In those

early days men’s passions were high and easily aroused. In a country where all men

went armed, recourse to firearms was frequent, and these feuds sometimes led to active

warfare between the adherents of each party, to the great discomfort of the citizens

among whom such a miniature war was staged.

Mason and the adjoining county, Gillespie, had been settled by Germans in the early

history of the state. These settlers were quiet and peaceful and made most excellent citizens,

loyal to their adopted country and government when undisturbed. Most of these Germans

engaged in stock raising and were sorely tried by the rustlers and Indians, who

committed many depredations upon their cattle.

In the latter part of September 1875, Tim Williamson, a prominent cattleman living

in Mason County, was arrested on a charge of cat t le theft by John Worley, a

deputy sheriff of that county. Previous to that time there had been a number of

complaints about the loss of cattle, and the Germans charged that many of their cattle

had been stolen and the brands burned. Much indignation had been aroused among the

stockmen of the county, and threats of violence against the thieves were common.


51

As soon as the news of Williamson’s arrest on a charge of cattle thieving

became known a large mob formed and set out in pursuit of the deputy sheriff and his

prisoner. On his way to Mason, Worley was overtaken by this posse. When he saw

the pursuing men Williamson divined their purpose and begged the sheriff to let him

run in an effort to save his life. Worley refused and, it is said, drew his pistol and

deliberately shot Williamson’s horse through the loin, causing it to fall. Unarmed and

unmounted, Williamson was killed without a chance to protect himself and without any

pretense of a trial. After the murder Worley and the mob disappeared.

Whether or not Williamson was guilty of the charge against him, he had friends who

bitterly resented the deputy sheriff’s refusal to allow the murdered man a chance for his

life, and his death caused a great deal of excitement and bitter comment in the county. A

man named Scott Cooley, an ex-Ranger of Captain Perry’s Company D, was a particular

friend of Williamson and his family. At the time of his friend’s murder Cooley had quit the

Ranger service and was cultivating a farm near Menardville. He had worked for the

dead man and had made two trips up the trail to Kansas with him. While working with the

murdered cattleman Cooley had contracted a bad case of typhoid fever and had been nursed

back to health by Mrs. Williamson’s own hands.

When the news of Tim Williamson’s murder reached Scott Cooley he was much

incensed, and vowed vengeance against the murderers of his friend. He left his farm at once

and, saddling his pony, rode into the town of Mason heavily armed. He had worked out a

careful plan of his own and proceeded to put it into execution immediately on his arrival.


52

Stabling his horse in a livery barn, he registered at the hotel. As he was entirely unknown in

Mason, Cooley remained in town several days without creating any suspicion. He proved

himself a good detective, and soon discovered that the sheriff and his deputy were the leaders in

the mob that had killed his friend. Biding his time and pursuing his investigations he soon

learned the name of every man in the posse that had murdered Williamson.

His information complete, Cooley decided upon action. He mounted his pony and rode

out to the home of John Worley, whom he found engaged in cleaning out a well. The

avenger dismounted, asked for a drink of water, and entered into conversation with the

unsuspecting man. Finally, as Worley was drawing his assistant out of the well, Cooley

asked him if his name was John Worley. The deputy sheriff replied that it was. Cooley

then declared his mission and shot Worley to death.

At the first crack of Cooley’s pistol Worley let the windlass go, and the man he was

drawing out of the well fell back about twenty-five feet into it. Cooley deliberately stooped

down, cut off Worley’s scalp, put it in his pocket, and galloped off. Victim number one was

chalked up to Williamson’s credit. Making a quick ride across Mason County to the western

edge of Llano County, Cooley waylaid and killed Pete Border, the second on his list of

mob members.

These two murders struck terror into the heart of nearly every citizen of Mason

County. No one could tell who would be the next victim of the unerring aim of Scott

Cooley’s rifle. The people of the whole county rose in arms to protect themselves. The

sheriff, terrified lest he be the next victim of Cooley, promptly left Mason and never


53

returned. Tim Williamson had other friends eager to avenge him, and the killing of

Border was their ral lying signal. John and Mose Beard, George Gladden, and

John Ringgold immediately joined Cooley in his work of vengeance. The gang rode into

the town of Mason, and in a fight with a posse of citizens killed another man.

Fearing the outbreak of a real feud war in Mason, the governor of Texas ordered

Major Jones to the relief of the frightened citizens. The order reached Major Jones while

he was on his way down the line near the head of the Guadalupe River. He at once turned his

company back, and with a detachment of ten men from Company D marched to Mason.

Company A, Major Jones’s escort, was then commanded by Captain Ira Long, and the thirty

men in that company and the ten boys of Company D gave the major forty men for his

relief expedition.

Before the Rangers could reach Mason, the sheriff’s party had a fight with Cooley’s

gang down on the Llano River and killed Mose Beard. On his arrival in Mason, Major Jones

sent scouts in every direction to hunt Cooley. He kept this up for nearly two weeks but without

result. He finally learned that nearly the whole of his command, especially the Company D

boys who had ranged with Cooley, was in sympathy with the outlaw and was making no

serious attempt to locate or imperil him. It was even charged that some of the Company D

Rangers met Cooley at night on the outskirts of Mason and told him they did not care if he

killed every damned Dutchman in Mason County who formed part of the mob that had

murdered Williamson.


54

Major Jones saw he would have to take drastic steps at once. He drew up his whole

force of forty men and made them an eloquent speech. He said he had a special pride in the

Frontier Battalion and was making it his life’s study, and that he personally had a kindly

feeling for every man in the service. He then reminded the men in the most feeling

manner of the oath they had taken to protect the state of Texas against all her

enemies whatsoever, an oath every true man was bound to honor. He declared he knew

many of the command had a friendly feeling for Scott Cooley, especially those boys who had

shared the life of a Ranger with him, and that he, himself, felt keenly the position in which

they were placed. While Tim Williamson had met a horrible death at the hands of a

relentless mob, this did not justify Cooley in killing people in a private war of vengeance

in defiance of the law and the Rangers.

As the climax of his speech the major said: “Men I now have a proposition to

make to you. If every man here who is in sympathy with Scott Cooley and his gang and

who does not wish to pursue him to the bitter end will step out of the ranks I will issue him

an honorable discharge and let him quit the service clean.”

The major paused and about fifteen men stepped to the front.

“Gentlemen,” continued Major Jones, “those who do not avail themselves of this

opportunity I shall expect to use all diligence and strength in helping me to break up or capture

these violators of the law.”

After the discharge of the Cooley sympathizers, the Rangers went to work with a

new vigor, and finally captured George Gladden and John Ringgold. Gladden was


55

sent to the penitentiary for twenty-five years, while Ringgold received a life sentence.

Probably Scott Cooley was informed of Major Jones’s appeal to the Rangers, for he

became less active around Mason after this. John Beard, it was reported, skipped Texas

and went to Arizona.

Soon after Cooley killed John Worley, Norman Rodgers got permission from

Captain Roberts to ride over to Joe Franks’s cow outfit to exchange his horse for a better

one. When Rodgers rode into the cowboy camp he noticed a man resting under a tree

near the fire. The stranger called one of the cowboys and asked him who Norman was. As

Rodgers left camp this man followed him and asked if he was one of Roberts’ Rangers

and if he knew Major Reynolds. Rodgers replied that he knew Reynolds very well.

The man then declared he was Scott Cooley and, reaching into his pocket, he

pulled out John Worley’s scalp. “You take this to Major Reynolds with my compliments, but

don’t you tell anybody you saw me.”

Rodgers duly delivered the scalp and Reynolds cautioned him to say nothing about it.

Forty years afterward, at an old settlers reunion in Sweetwater, Norman Rodgers mentioned

this incident in a speech—he had kept his promise to Cooley and Reynolds all these years.

Having lost his friends and his sympathizers in the Rangers, Cooley returned to Blanco

County, where he formerly lived. Here he was stricken with brain fever, and though

tenderly nursed, shielded by his friends, he died without ever being brought to trial for his

killings. This ended the Mason County War, but some ten or twelve men were killed

before and a race war was narrowly averted.


56

CHAPTER VI

MAJOR JONES AND HIS ESCORT

Despite their usefulness in protecting the frontiers and in maintaining law and

order, t h e T e x a s R a n g e r s h a v e a l w a y s h a d t o f i g h t more or less strenuously to

obtain from the state legislature the necessary appropriation for their annual

maintenance. Whenever the appropriation is small there is but one remedy—reduce the

personnel of each company to the lowest limits possible. In the fall of 1875 the adjutant

general notified the captains all along the line to reduce their companies to twenty men

each for the winter at the end of the current quarter. As the day for reduction arrived

there were some anxious moments among the men of Company D as no one knew just who was

to be retained in the service.

On December first Captain Roberts formed the command in line and explained it was

his sad duty to reduce the company to twenty men, and announced that the orderly sergeant

would read the names of those to be retained in the company. The sergeant then stepped

forward and began to read. First Sergeant Plunk Murray, Second Sergeant James

Hawkins, First Corporal Lam Seiker, Second Corporal Tom Griffin, and Privates

Charles Nevill, Tom Gillespie, Nick Donley, Jim Trout, Henry Maltimore, Kit

Maltimore, Jack Martin, W. T. Clements, Ed Seiker, Andy Wilson, J. W. Bell,

Norman Rodgers, Dock Long, Tom Mead, Frank Hill, and Jim Gillett were the lucky ones

retained in the command. The remainder of the party was thereupon discharged. My relief


57

may be imagined when my name was read, for I had learned to love the Ranger life and was

loath to quit it.

After reduction we went into winter camp in a bend of the San Saba River about

three miles east of Menardville. In the river bottom was plenty of good timber, so each

mess of five men built a log cabin, sixteen to eighteen feet square, for their occupancy. These

cabins, each with a chimney and a fireplace, formed the western side of our horse corral

and made most comfortable winter abodes. During the winter the boys played many tricks

on each other, for there were no Indian raids during the time we were in this winter

camp. One of the favorite stunts was to extract the bullet from a cartridge, take out

the powder and wrap it in a rag, and then, while the inmates of a given cabin would

be quietly smoking or reading or talking around their fire, climb upon the roof and drop the

rag down the chimney. When the powder exploded in the fire the surprised Rangers would fall

backward off their benches, to the huge glee of the prank player. At other times a couple of

Rangers would post themselves outside a neighbor’s cabin and begin to yell, “Fire! Fire!” at the

top of their lungs. If the cabin owners did not stand in the doorway to protect it all the Rangers in

camp would rush up and throw bedding, cooking utensils, saddles and bridles, guns and pistols

outside as quickly as they could. In a jiffy the cabin would be cleaned out and the victims of the

joke would have to lug all their belongings back in again.

But not all our time was spent in practical joking. Many of the Rangers were of a

studious mind, and during the long winter evenings they pored over their books. Several


58

of our boys, by such study over a period of years, qualified themselves for doctors, lawyers, and

other professional callings.

One of the Rangers, Nick Donley, was a baker by trade, and he soon built a

Dutch oven and made bread for the Rangers. We pooled our flour and had fresh, warm

bread every evening. This was so good and we ate so much of it that our allowance of

flour would not last for the period issued, and Captain Roberts was compelled to order

the bake oven torn down. Thereafter the boys baked their own bread and the flour

lasted.

Some of the Rangers had captured bear cubs, and we had them in camp with us as

pets. They grew rapidly and were soon big fellows and immensely popular with the boys.

Sometimes a bear would break loose from its chain, and then all of us would turn out to

hunt the escaped pet. Most often we would find him seated in a tree which he had climbed

as soon as he had broken his shackles. I cannot here forbear mentioning the useful little

pack mules that served the Rangers so long and so well. When the battalion was formed in

1874 a number of little bronco mules were secured for packing. They soon learned what

was expected of them and followed the Rangers like dogs. Carrying a weight of one

hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds, they would follow a scout of Rangers on the

dead run right into the midst of the hottest fight with Indians or desperadoes. They seemed to

take as much interest in such an engagement as the Rangers themselves.

These little pack animals had as much curiosity as a child or a pet coon. In

traveling they sometimes met a bunch of horses or several campers along the highway.


59

Immediately they would run over for a brief visit with the strangers, and when the Rangers

had gone on a thousand yards or more would scamper up to us as fast as they could run.

Later, when the Rangers drew in from the frontier and scouted in a more thickly settled

country the mules with their packs would march up to strange horses and frighten them out

of their wits. Once, in Austin, one of our mules calmly trotted up to a mule that was pulling

a streetcar. As the pack mule would not give right of way the streetcar mule shied to

one side and pulled its conveyance completely off the track, to the surprise of its driver.

The tiny animals pulled off several stunts like this and caused so much complaint that

Adjutant General Jones issued an order for all Rangers to catch and lead their pack mules

when passing through a town.

As soon as we were located in the new camp Privates Nevill, Bell, and Seiker obtained

permission from Captain Roberts to visit Austin to buy a case of ten Winchesters. Up to

this time the company was armed with .50 caliber Sharps carbines. These guns would

heat easily and thus were very inaccurate shooters. The state furnished this weapon to its

Rangers at a cost of $17.50, and at that time furnished no other class of gun. The new

center-fire 1873-model Winchester had just appeared on the market and sold at $50 for

the rifle and $40 for the carbine. A Ranger who wanted a Winchester, had to pay for it out of

his own pocket and supply his own ammunition as well, for the state furnished cartridges

only for the Sharps gun. However, ten men in Company D, myself included, were willing to

pay the price to have a superior arm. I got carbine number 13401, and for the next six

years of my Ranger career I never used any other weapon. I have killed almost every kind of


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game that is found in Texas, from the biggest old bull buffalo to a fox squirrel with this little

.44 Winchester. Today I still preserve it as a prized memento of the past.

The boys were all anxious to try their new guns, and as Christmas approached we

decided to have a real Yuletide dinner. Ed Seiker and myself visited a big turkey roost on the

head of Elm Creek and killed seven big wild turkeys, and on our return Seiker bagged a

fine buck deer. J. W. Bell hunted on the San Saba and brought in six or eight wild geese and

about a dozen mallard ducks. Donley, the baker, made the pies, while Mrs. Roberts

furnished the fruitcake. Some of the boys made eggnog, and altogether we had the

finest Christmas dinner that ever graced the boards of a Ranger camp. The village of

Menardville was not far away, and most of the Rangers visited it during Christmas week

for the dancing. Jack Martin once remarked to Mrs. Roberts that there was very little society

about a Ranger camp. She told the joke on him and thereafter as long as he lived he was

known as “Society Jack.”

During the winter we laid out a racecourse and had much sport with our horses. But

there was work as well as play that winter. Though Captain Roberts kept scouts in the

field during the entire winter they never discovered any Indian trails. The Rangers had not

yet turned their attention to outlaws, so we were not burdened with chained prisoners as

we were in after years. This winter camp on the San Saba was the pleasantest time in my

service with the Rangers.

The first week in April 1876, we moved out of our winter quarters to a camp some

six or seven miles above Menardville and located in a pecan grove on the banks of the San


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Saba. We were all glad to get into our tents again after four months spent in log cabins.

I remember our first night at the new camp. The boys set out some hooks and caught

four or five big yellow catfish weighing twenty-five or thirty pounds each—enough fish to

last the twenty men several days.

As the spring opened, Captain Roberts began sending out scouts to look for Indian

signs. I remember I was detailed on a scout that was commanded by a non-commissioned officer.

We were ordered to scout as far north as the union of the Concho and Colorado rivers. After

crossing the Brady Mountains we struck a trail of Indians going out. The redskins had probably

been raiding in San Saba or McCulloch County. Their trail led west as straight to San Angelo as

a bird could fly. Though the Indians were not numerous and had only a few horses, the trail

was easily followed. As well as we could judge the redskins had passed on a few days

before we discovered their sign. We found where they had stolen some horses, for we

picked up several pairs of hobbles that had been cut in two and left behind. At that time

there were several big cattle ranches in the Fort Concho country, and in going to and

from water the cattle entirely obliterated the trail. We worked hard two days trying to

find it and then gave up the hunt. We needed the genius of Captain Roberts to help

us out that time.

On June 1, 1876, the company was increased to forty men. Some of the boys who had

quit at Mason the fall before now reentered the service. Especially do I remember that

“Mage” Reynolds enlisted with Company D once more.


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During the summer of Major Jones planned a big scout out on the Pecos to strike

the Lipans and Kickapoos a blow before they began raiding the white settlements. This

scout started from Company D in July. The major drafted about twenty men from

my company, his whole escort Company A of thirty men, and marched into Kerr

County. Here he drafted part of Captain Coldwell’s Company F, making his force

total about seventy men with three wagons and about twenty pack mules.

The column traveled down the Nueces, then by Fort Clark up the Devils River to

Beaver Lake. Here Captain Ira Long with twenty men and the wagon train was sent

up the San Antonio and El Paso road to old Fort Lancaster on the Pecos, where he was to

await the arrival of Major Jones with the main force.

From Beaver Lake, the major with fifty men and the twenty pack mules turned

southwest and traveled down Johnston’s Run to the Shafer Crossing on the Pecos.

From this crossing we scouted up the Pecos to the mouth of Independence Creek. The

country through this section was very rough but very beautiful. We saw several abandoned

Indian camps, especially at the mouth of the creek. Here we found the pits and the

scaffolds on which the redskins had dried their meat, also evidence that many deer hides

had been dressed and made into buckskin. Bows and arrows had also been manufactured in

these camps. From this section the Indians had been gone probably a month or more.

After ten days of scouting we joined Captain Long at Fort Lancaster and marched up

Live Oak Creek to its head. Here we prepared to cross the big stretch of tableland

between the Pecos and the headwaters of the South Concho. We filled what barrels we had


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with water, marched out from the creek, and traveled about ten miles into the plains by

night and made a dry camp. We got an early start next day and traveled until night

without finding water. The stock suffered greatly from thirst, and the men had only a

little water in their canteens. All the land ponds had been dry two weeks or more, and I

saw twelve head of buffalo that had bogged and died in one of them. Here we found an

abandoned Indian camp, where the redskins had dressed many antelope hides. At

one old bent mesquite tree the antelope hair was a foot deep, with thirty or forty skulls

scattered about.

By the second morning both men and horses were suffering a great deal from thirst

and Major Jones gave orders to begin the march at four o’clock. We got away on time and

reached water on the South Concho at two p.m., the third day out from Live Oak

Creek. As soon as we got near the water we found a number of straggling buffalo, and

killed two, thus securing a supply of fresh meat. We camped two days at this water

and then marched back to Company D by easy stages. Here Major Jones turned back up

the line with his escort, after being out on this scout about a month.

On his return toward the Rio Grande, Major Jones reached Company D the last

week in August and camped with us until September first, the end of the fiscal year

for the Rangers. On this date many men would quit the service to retire to private

life, while some would join other companies, and new recruits would be sworn into

the service. This reorganization usually required two or three days.


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Nearly every Ranger in the battalion was anxious to be at some time a member of Major

Jones’s escort company. The escort company was not assigned a stationary post nor did it

endeavor to cover a given strip of territory. Its most important duty was to escort the

major on his periodic journeys of inspection to the other companies along the line. The

escort always wintered in the south and made about four yearly tours of the frontier from

company to company, taking part in such scouts as the major might select and being

assigned to such extraordinary duty as might arise. In 1874, when the Frontier Battalion

was first formed, Major Jones recruited his escort from a detail of five men from each of

the other companies. However, in practice, this led to some confusion and envy in the

commands and Major Jones found it expedient to have a regular escort company, so he

selected Company A for this purpose. This remained his escort until he was promoted to

adjutant general.

In September 1876, there were several vacancies in Jones’s escort, and several old

Company D boys, among them “Mage” Reynolds, Charles Nevill, Jack Martin, Bill

Clements, and Tom Gillespie, wished to enlist in Company A. They wanted me to go with

them, but I hesitated to leave Captain Roberts. My friends then explained that we could

see a lot more country on the escort than we could in a stationary company; and that we

would probably be stationed down on the Rio Grande that winter, and going up the line in

the spring would see thousands of buffalo. This buffalo proposition caught me, and I went

with the boys. After fifteen months ranging with Captain Roberts I now joined Company

A.


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Early in September Major Jones marched his escort down to within five or six miles

of San Antonio and camped us on the Salado while he went in to Austin. By the first of

October he was back in camp, and started up the line on his last visit to the different

companies before winter set in.

Major John B. Jones was a small man, probably not more than five feet seven

inches tall, and weighed about one hundred and twenty-five pounds. He had very dark hair

and eyes and a heavy dark moustache. He was quick in action, though small in

stature, and was an excellent horseman, riding very erect in the saddle.

The major was born in Fairfield District , South Carolina, in 1834, but

immigrated to Texas with his father when he was only four years old. He was prominent in

Texas state affairs from a very early age and served gallantly with the Confederate

army during the Civil War. On the accession of Governor Coke in 1874 he was appointed

to command the Frontier Battalion of six companies of Texas Rangers. From his

appointment until his death in Austin in 1881, Major Jones was constantly engaged in

repulsing bloody raids of Indians, rounding up outlaws, and making Texas secure and

safe for the industrious and peaceful citizen. In this work his wonderful tact,

judgment, coolness, and courage found ample scope.

From the organization of the battalion in 1874 until Major Jones was made adjutant

general, Dr. Nicholson was always with him. The doctor was a quaint old bachelor who

loved his toddy. The boys would sometimes get him as full as a goose, and the major

would give the doctor some vicious looks at such times. Dr. Nicholson was a great favorite


66

with all the men, and it is said he knew every good place for butter, milk, and eggs from Rio

Grande City to Red River, a trifling distance of eight hundred miles. The doctor always messed

with Major Jones, and, mounted on a fine horse, traveled by his side. I don’t think Dr.

Nicholson ever issued a handful of pills to the boys during the year—he was just with

us in case he was needed. When the escort was disbanded he retired to private life at

Del Rio, Texas, and finally died there.

This inspection tour was a wonderful experience for me. The weather was cool and

bracing, and the horses had had a month’s rest. We had with us a quartet of musicians,

and after the day’s march they would often gather around the campfire and give us a

concert. Vernon Wilson played the guitar, Columbus Callaway the banjo, and W. T.

Clements the violin. The major would frequently walk down and listen to the music.

Nor was music our only amusement. Major Jones had provided his escort with a fish seine, and

when we were camped on a big creek or river the boys would unroll the net, make a haul,

and sometimes catch enough fish to supply the thirty men several days.

When recruited to its full strength, Company A consisted of a captain, orderly sergeant,

second sergeant, first and second corporals, and twenty-six privates. Two four-mule wagons

hauled the camp equipage, rations for the men, and grain for the horses. One light wagon

drawn by two mules and driven by George, the negro cook, carried the mess outfit, bedding,

tent, etc., of Major Jones and Dr. Nicholson.

Each morning at roll call the orderly sergeant detailed a guard of nine men and one

non-commissioned officer to guard for twenty-four hours. When ready to begin our day’s


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journey, the company was formed in line and the men counted off by fours. On the march

Major Jones and Dr. Nicholson rode in front, followed by the captain of the company, the

orderly sergeant, and the men in double file. Following these came the wagons. An advance

guard of two men preceded the column about one-half mile. Four men, known as

flankers, two on each side of the company, paralleled the column at a distance of one-half to

one mile, depending on the nature of the country. In a rough, wooded section the

flankers traveled close in, but in an open country they sometimes spread out quite a

distance. The non-commissioned officer with the remaining guard covered the rear and

brought up the pack mules. Thus protected, it was almost impossible for the command to

be surprised by Indians.

Major Jones paid no attention to roads unless they happened to coincide with his line of

march. In clear weather he made use of landmarks, and in cloudy or foggy weather

traveled by compass. At one time he had with him two Tonkawa Indians as guides.

For protection this tribe lived near Fort Griffin, a large military post. One of these old

braves, known as Jim, had been given an old army coat with the shoulder straps of a

general on it. Jim wore this coat tightly buttoned up and marched at the head of the column

with as much dignity and importance as a general-in-chief. His companion wore a high-

crowned beaver stovepipe hat with the top gone, and carried an old umbrella that someone

had given him. Fitted out in this ridiculous and unique manner he marched for days with the

umbrella over him. Think of an Indian shading himself from the sun!


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Major Jones never paid much attention to these Indians unless he wished to inquire the

lay of the country or the distance to some water hole. They did pretty much as they pleased,

sometimes riding in front with the major, sometimes with the guard, and at others with the

men. These redskins were a constant source of amusement to the boys. Jim and his

pal were good hunters but as lazy as could be. They got into the habit of killing a buffalo

late in the evening when they knew it was almost time to pitch camp, cutting out just

enough meat for themselves and letting the remainder go to waste. The major told them

that when they killed a buffalo he wanted to know of it so he could secure the meat for the

company. The Tonks paid no attention to this request, and late one evening came into

camp with five or six pounds of buffalo meat.

The orderly sergeant spied them, so he walked over to Major Jones and said, “Major,

those two old Tonkawas are back in camp with just enough meat for themselves.”

“Sergeant, you get a pack mule, take a file of men with you, and make those Indians

saddle their horses and go with you to get that buffalo,” the major commanded, determined

that his order should be obeyed by the Indians.

The sergeant went to the Indians, who were busy about the fire roasting their meat, and

told them what the major had said. Jim declared that he was tired and did not wish to go. The

non-commissioned officer replied that that made no difference and commanded him and his pal

to get their ponies and lead the way to the dead buffalo.

“Maybe so ten miles to buffalo,” protested Jim, trying to avoid going.


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The sergeant knew they were lying, for of all the Indians that ever inhabited Texas the

Tonkawas were the biggest cowards. Just mention the Comanches or Kiowas to them and

they would have a chill. It was well known that the Tonks would not venture very far

away from the protection of the Rangers for fear of being killed by their enemies. As

soon as they knew they had to do as ordered, they mounted their ponies and led the

sergeant over a little hill, and in a valley not more than half a mile from camp was the

fat buffalo the Indians had killed. The animal was soon skinned and brought into camp,

where all had plenty of fresh meat.

These Tonks were as simple as children and as superstitious as negroes. The weather

had been hot and dry for several days. Old Jim thereupon killed some hawks with his bow

and arrows, plaited the long tail and wing feathers into his pony’s mane and tail, and said it

would make “heap rain.” Sure enough, in three or four days a hard thundershower

came up and thoroughly wet everybody on the march. Jim, with only his old officer’s

coat for protection, was drenched to the skin, and his pony looked like a drowned rat. The

wood, grass, everything was wet. Jim stood by, shivering with the cold, and watched the

boys use up almost their last match trying to make a fire. Suddenly, with a look of

disgust, he ran to his horse, which was standing near, and plucked every hawk

feather out of the animal’s tail and mane and, throwing them on the ground, stamped upon

them violently as if that would stop the rain.

After the escort had crossed the Colorado River on its way northward we found an

advance guard of buffalo on its way south, and it was an easy matter to keep the company in


70

fresh meat. We spent about one week with Company B on the upper Brazos, then turned south

again to make our winter camp near old Frio Town in Frio County. It was November now and

freezing hard every night.

The last guard would call the camp early, so we generally had breakfast and were

ready to move southward by daylight. We did not stop a single time for dinner on this

return trip, just traveled at a steady gait all day long. After traveling in this way without

dinner for a week or so, the boys began making at breakfast what they called “bacon

pies”—strips of broiled bacon placed between slices of bread—which they ate for lunch as we

marched along. It was not until many years afterward, when I became a Mason, that I learned

the reason for our forced marches. Major Jones was in line to be made Most Worshipful

Grand Master of Masons in Texas and he had to be in Houston on the first Tuesday in

December for the annual meeting of the Most Worshipful Grand Lodge. If there were other

Masons in the company besides Major Jones I never knew it.

At this time we had for commander of the escort, Lieutenant Benton. He was in bad

health and rode most of the way back in one of the wagons. On arriving at the end of the

line he tendered his resignation and was succeeded by Captain Neal Coldwell. The company

camped for the winter on Elm Creek, three miles southwest of old Frio Town.

Captain Neal Coldwell was born in Dade County, Missouri, in May 1844, and

served gallantly throughout the Civil War in the Thirty-second Regiment, Texas

cavalry, commanded by Col. W. P. Woods. At the organization of the Frontier Battalion

in 1874, he was commissioned captain of Company F.


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It is difficult, in a single sketch, to do Captain Coldwell justice or convey any correct idea

of what he accomplished as a Texas Ranger. The station of Company F, the

southernmost company of the line, was the most unfavorable that could well be given

him. His scouting grounds were the heads of the Guadalupe, Nueces, Llano, and

Devils rivers, the roughest and most difficult part of southern Texas in which to pursue

Indians, yet he held them in check and finally drove them out of that part of the state.


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CHAPTER VII

THE HORRELL-HIGGINS FEUD

By the end of the year 1876 the Indians had been pret ty well pushed back off the

frontier , so that there were very few fights with them after 1877. From the spring

of 1877 onward the Rangers were transformed into what might properly be called

mounted state police, and accordingly turned their attention to ridding the frontier of

the outlaws that infested nearly every part of Texas. During the winter of 1876-1877,

Captain Neal Coldwell broke up a band of thieves which was operating in the northwestern

part of Atascosa County. I remember helping him capture a man named Wolf. He was

wanted for murder, and we made several scouts after him before we succeeded in

landing him safely in irons.

In April 1877, Major Jones reached Coldwell’s company and at once made

arrangements to march up the line on a visit of inspection. When the major reached the

headwaters of the South Llano River he halted his escort and detailed several small

scouting parties of five or six men, each with orders to arrest every man who could not give a

good account of himself. One scout was sent down the South Llano, a second down Johnson’s

Fork, while a third was ordered over the divide with instructions to hit the head of the

North Llano and sweep down that river—all three parties to rejoin Major Jones and the

main escort near where Junction City now stands. In these outlaw raids some fifty or sixty

men were arrested and brought in. Many of the suspects were released upon examination, but I

remember one scout brought in two escaped convicts who had been captured up on


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Copperas Creek. We bagged several men wanted for murder and some horse and

cattle thieves. Old Kimble County had never had such a cleanup of bandits in her history.

While these prisoners were being held in camp, other scouts were sent out in the northern

part of the county with orders to sweep Bear Creek, Gentry, Red Creek, Big and Little

Saline, cross the San Saba River in Menard County, and sweep up that stream from

old Peg Leg Station to Menard. Many more suspects were caught in this haul.

With a party of scouts I was detailed on a mission to Fort McKavett; at that time one

of the big military posts on the frontier. Many hard characters and gamblers gathered

about these posts to fleece the soldiers out of their easy made money. We made several

arrests here, and camped for noon one mile below the government post on the San Saba

River. During the dinner hour my horse, a gray, in lying down to wallow, rolled on some

broken beer bottles and cut his back so badly that he was unfit for use for some time. When

the escort moved north I was left with old Company D until the arrival of Company A

on its return march some six weeks later. I thereby missed some of the exciting

scouts that took place on the march north.

When Major Jones reached Coleman City he found orders from Governor Coke to

send a scout of Rangers to Lampasas County to help the civil authorities suppress a war known

as the Horrell-Higgins feud. Second Sergeant N. O. Reynolds was detached from Company

A and with ten men ordered to proceed to Lampasas and report to the sheriff of that county.

After leaving Coleman, Major Jones visited the northernmost Ranger company

and began his return march. This was to be his last trip with his escort, for immediately upon


74

his return to Austin he was commissioned adjutant general of Texas. As there was no

longer a major of the battalion, there was no need of an escort, so old Company A took

its place on the line as a stationary company. Captain Neal Coldwell was ultimately made

quartermaster of the battalion, and I believe ranked as major.

I was picked up at Company D by the escort on its return march and was with

Company A when it was made a stationary command and located in Frio County.

During the late summer of 1877, a party of filibusterers under command of a

Mexican general named Winkler assembled in Maverick County, near Eagle Pass, and

prepared to invade Mexico. Captain Coldwell, then commanding Company A, was ordered

to the Rio Grande to break up the expedition. This he did by arresting more than fifty

participants. I was with him on this expedition and saw much border service during this

summer.

I remember a scout I was called on to make with Captain Coldwell over in

Bandera County. The captain took with him John Parker, Hawk Roberts, and myself. In one

week’s time we caught some ten or twelve fugitives from justice and literally filled the

little jail at Bandera. Captain Coldwell detailed Hawk Roberts and myself to capture an

especially bad man wanted in Burnet County for murder. The captain warned us to take

no chances with this man—this meant to kill him he hesitated about surrendering. I can’t

remember this murderer’s name at this late date, but I recall perfectly the details of his

capture. Sheriff Jack Hamilton of Bandera County sent a guide to show us where the

fugitive lived. The guide led us some fifteen miles northwest of Bandera and finally


75

pointed out the house in which the murderer was supposed to be. He then refused to

go any farther, saying he did not want any of this man’s game, for the fellow had just

stood off a deputy sheriff and made him hike it back to Bandera.

It was almost night when we reached the house, so Roberts and I decided to wait

until morning before attempting the arrest. We staked our horses, lay down on our

saddle blankets wi thout supper, and slept soundly till dawn. As soon as it was

daylight we rode over near the house, dismounted, slipped up, and, unannounced, stepped

inside the room. The man we wanted was sleeping on a pallet with a big white-

handled .45 near his head. Hawk Roberts kicked the pistol out of his reach. The

noise awakened the sleeper and he opened his eyes to find himself looking into the

business ends of two Winchesters held within a foot of his head. Of course he

surrendered without fight. His wife, who was sleeping in a bed in the same room,

jumped out of it and heaped all kinds of abuse on us for entering her home without

ceremony. She was especially bitter against Sheriff Hamilton, who, she said, had promised

to notify her husband when he was wanted so he could come in and give himself up. She

indignantly advised her husband to give old Sheriff Hamilton a damned good whipping

the first chance he had.

While Company A was rounding up outlaws along the border, Sergeant Reynolds was

covering himself with glory in the north. On reaching Lampasas and reporting to the sheriff,

as ordered by Major Jones, the sergeant was told that the Horrell boys were living on

the Sulphur Fork of the Lampasas River and were defying the authorities to arrest them.


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The Horrells were native Texans and had been raised on the frontier. These brothers,

five of whom were involved in the feud (the sixth, John Horrell, had been killed at Las

Cruces, New Mexico, previously), were expert riders, and, having grown up with

firearms in their hands, were as quick as lightning with either Winchester or pistol. Sam

Horrell, the eldest, was married and had a large family of children. He was a farmer,

and lived a quiet life over on the Lampasas River. The other four boys, Mart, Tom,

Merritt, and Ben, were all cattlemen. They stood well in the community, but were

considered dangerous when aroused.

At this time Lampasas was a frontier town and wide open as far as saloons and

gambling were concerned. The Horrells, like most cattlemen of the period, loved to

congregate in town, go to the saloons and have a good time, perhaps drink too much,

and sometimes at night shoot up the town for fun, as they termed it. Some of the more

pious and more settled citizens of the town, who did not approve of these night brawls, called

upon Governor Edmund J. Davis to give them protection. Governor Davis had formed in

Texas a state police force. Naturally its members were rank Republicans, and many of

them were termed carpetbaggers. This body was never popular in Texas, especially as

many of the force were negroes.

In answer to the call of the citizens, Governor Davis dispatched Captain Williams with

three white men and one negro to Lampasas. On the way up Captain Will iams met several

fre ighters going to Aust in and stopped one of them, John Means, to ask the


77

distance to Lampasas. The captain had been drinking, and he told Mr. Means he was

going to town to clean up those damned Horrell boys.

The little squad of police reached Lampasas about three p.m., hitched their horses

to some live oak trees on the public plaza, left the negro to guard them, and then made a

bee line to Jerry Scott’s saloon on the west side of the square. Mart, Tom, and Merritt

Horrell, with some ten or fifteen cowmen, were in the saloon drinking, playing

billiards, and having a good time generally. One man was picking a banjo and another

playing a fiddle. Captain Williams, an exceedingly brave but unwise man, took in the

situation at a glance as he walked up to the bar and called for drinks.

He turned to Bill Bowen, a brother-in-law to Merritt Horrell, and said, “I believe you

have a six-shooter. I arrest you.”

“Bill, you have done nothing and need not be arrested if you don’t want to,” interrupted

Mart Horrell.

Like a flash of lightning Captain Williams pulled his pistol and fired on Mart

Horrell, wounding him badly. The Horrell boys drew their guns and began to fight. Captain

Williams and one of his men, Dr. Daniels, were shot down in the saloon. William

Cherry was killed just outside the door, and Andrew Melville was fatally wounded as

he was trying to escape. He reached the old Huling Hotel, where he died later. At the

first crack of a pistol the negro policeman mounted his horse and made a John Gilpin ride for

Austin. Thus, within the twinkling of an eye, four state police were killed and only one of

the Horrells wounded.


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Tom and Merritt Horrell carried the wounded Mart to their mother’s home, some

two hundred yards from Scott’s saloon, then mounted their horses and rode away. Great

excitement prevailed in the town. The state militia was called out, and Governor Davis

hurried other state police to Lampasas. They scoured the country for the Horrell boys, but

to no avail.

Mart Horrell and Jerry Scott were arrested and carried to Georgetown,

Williamson County, and placed in jail. Mart Horrell’s wife went to the jail to nurse her husband

and, of course, kept her brothers-in-law informed as to Mart’s condition. As soon as he

was well the Horrell boys made up a party and rode to Williamson County and assaulted

the jail at night. The citizens and officers of Georgetown, taken unawares, put up a stiff

fight, but the Horrells had ten or fifteen well organized and armed men with them.

They took stations at all approaches to the jail and kept up a steady fire with their

Winchesters at anyone who showed up to oppose them. Mr. A. S. Fisher, a prominent

lawyer of the town, took an active hand in the fight and was badly wounded. Bill Bowen

was slightly wounded while battering in the jail door with a sledgehammer. Mart Horrell

and Jerry Scott were liberated and rode off with their rescuers.

By the next evening the Horrells were back in Lampasas County. They at once made

arrangements to leave the country and go to New Mexico. They had gathered about them

Bill and Tom Bowen, John Dixon, Ben Turner, and six or eight other men as

desperate and dangerous as themselves. They were so formidable that they no longer

attempted to hide, but openly and without hindrance gathered their cattle and sold the remnant


79

to Cooksey and Clayton, to be delivered to them in Coleman County. They even

notified the sheriff of Lampasas County just what day they would pass with their

herd through Russell Gap, but they were not molested.

As a cowboy I had worked for Cooksey and Clayton and was with them when they

delivered cattle to the Horrell boys on Home Creek, Coleman County. I had dinner in

camp with the outlaws, who made no effort to hide from the authorities. I remember

they sat about the camp with Winchesters across their laps.

When all was ready, the Horrells moved slowly out of the country with their

families and cattle and finally reached New Mexico, settling on the head of the Hondo River in

Lincoln County. They had not been at their new home many months before Ben

Horrell was shot and killed at a fandango near old Fort Stanton. Ben’s brothers at

once repaired to the dance hall and killed eight Mexicans and one woman.

This brought on a war between the Horrell boys and the Mexican population along

the Hondo River, and it is said that in the fights that followed many Mexicans were killed

between Fort Stanton and Roswell. In one of these pitched battles Ben Turner was killed.

Turner was prominent in all of the fights staged by the Horrells, was with them when Captain

Williams was killed, and was one of the party that made the assault on the Georgetown

jail. His death was keenly felt by his companions.

Having now outlawed themselves in New Mexico, the Horrells could no longer stay

in that country. They turned back to Texas, and next year showed up at their old haunts in

Lampasas County. The shock of the Civil War was beginning to subside and the state was


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now under civil government with a Democratic governor in office. The friends of the

Horrells advised them to surrender to the authorities to be tried for the killing of

Captain Williams and his men. They were assured a fair trial by the best citizens of

Lampasas County. Accordingly, they gave themselves up, and on the trial were acquitted

of the charges against them.

They had not long been at ease before Merritt, the youngest of the brothers, was

accused by Pink Higgins of unlawfully handling his cattle. Shortly afterward, while Merritt

was seated unarmed in a chair in the old Jerry Scott saloon, Pink Higgins stepped to the back

door of the place and shot him. Thus Merritt met his death in the same saloon where four

years before he had been a party to the killing of Captain Williams. At this time Mart and

Tom Horrell were living on Sulphur Fork of Lampasas River, where the news of

their brother’s death was quickly carried to them. They armed themselves and started on a run

for Lampasas.

This move had been anticipated by the Pink Higgins party. They waylaid the Horrell boys

outside the town and at their first fire killed Tom Horrell’s horse and badly wounded

Mart. Tom advanced single-handed on the attackers and put them to flight. He then partly

supported and partly carried his brother to the home of Mr. Tinnins, a neighbor, where a

doctor was hurried to the wounded man.

Thus Lampasas County was again the scene of war with Mart, Tom, and Sam

Horrell, Bill and Tom Bowen, John Dixon, and Bill Crabtree on one side and Pink

Higgins, Bob Mitchell, and their friends on the other. These two factions met in the town of


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Lampasas and a furious battle followed. A man was killed on each side and the population

greatly endangered. Hence the governor’s order to Major Jones to send Rangers to the

aid of the officers at Lampasas.

When Sergeant N. O. Reynolds reported to the sheriff, he was informed that

the Horrell boys were living ten miles east of Lampasas and had ten or twelve desperate

men with them, so that it meant certain death to anyone who should attempt to capture them.

“But, Mr. Sheriff, I am sent here to effect the capture of all offenders against the

law, and it is my duty at least to make the attempt,” replied the brave Reynolds.

“These men have never been arrested,” declared Sheriff Sweet, “and it is my

honest opinion they cannot be.

Reynolds then asked if the sheriff would send a guide to show him where the Horrells

lived. The Rangers left Lampasas late in the night and finally the guide pointed at a flickering

light about a mile off.

“There is where the Horrell boys live. I am going back to town,” he said.

When asked if lie would not accompany the Ranger to the house, the guide replied,

“No, not for a million dollars!” With this he turned his horse and rode away.

Reynolds thought it would be best to wait until daylight before attempting the arrest.

He planned to surprise the outlaws, if possible, but if the Rangers should be discovered

and an engagement come on they were to fight to the last man. As soon as dawn broke they

proceeded on foot to the Horrell brothers ranch. It was moment of great anxiety as they

approached the house but not a sound was heard, not a dog barked.


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Sergeant Reynolds and his men tiptoed right into the room in which the Horrells were

sleeping. Some of the men were on pallets on the floor, while others slept in beds in the

one big room. Each Ranger pointed a cocked Winchester at the head of a sleeper.

Reynolds then spoke to Mart Horrell. At the sound of his voice every man sat up in bed

and found himself looking into the muzzle of a gun. The sergeant quickly explained that

he was a Ranger and had come to arrest them. Mart replied they could not surrender, and

Tom Horrell said it would be better to die fighting than to be mobbed.

This gave Reynolds his cue. He warned the outlaws that if anything was started

there would be a dozen dead men in that house in one minute and advised them to listen to

what he had to say. He then guaranteed the Horrells upon his honor that he would not turn

them over to the sheriff to be put in jail and mobbed, but promised he would guard

them in his camp until they could secure a preliminary examination and give bond. “Boys,

this seems reasonable,” said Mart Horrell, raising to his feet. “I believe these Rangers

can be relied on to protect us. Besides, this fight has been thrust upon us. If we can get a

hearing we can give bond.”

They all agreed, finally, to this proposition of Sergeant Reynolds and

mounting their horses were marched into the town of Lampasas under guard of the

Rangers.

The news of the capture of the Horrells spread like wildfire through the town and

county. Hundreds of people flocked to Lampasas to see Sergeant Reynolds, the man who

had accomplished the impossible in rounding up the desperate band. The news was


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rushed to Austin, and General Jones himself hurried to the scene. This exploit of Sergeant

Reynolds brought him great credit, and he was at once commissioned first

lieutenant, and given command of a company.

The Horrells were admitted to bond, after a preliminary hearing. After their

release Mart Horrell came to Lieutenant Reynolds and feelingly thanked him for

carrying out his promise. With tears streaming down his face he grasped the

lieutenant’s hand and said, “You are undoubtedly the bravest man in the world

today.” About six months after this a country merchant of Bosque County was found

murdered and his store robbed, and Mart and Tom Horrell, Bill Crabtree, John Dixon,

and Tom Bowen were accused of the crime. The two Horrells were arrested and thrown

into the Bosque County jail at Meridian. While they were confined here a mob stormed the

jail and shot them to death. The Higgins and Mitchell factions finally surrendered to

the authorities. Pink Higgins was tried and acquitted of the murder of Merritt

Horrell. This ended the feud, but it started Lieutenant Reynolds on a new and important

phase of his career as a Ranger.


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CHAPTER VIII

SERVICE WITH REYNOLDS, THE INTREPID

As soon as Sergeant Reynolds was commissioned first lieutenant he was placed in

command of Company E , then s ta t ioned in Coleman County, but immediately

ordered to Lampasas. At this time Captain Sparks resigned the command of Company

C, and this company was also ordered to report to Lieutenant Reynolds at the same

town. Late in August the two commands went into camp at Hancock Springs. Major

Jones then authorized Lieutenant Reynolds to pick such men as he desired from these two

companies for his own company, after which the major either discharged the remainder or

transferred them to other commands. No other officer in the battalion, I believe, was

ever accorded this privilege.

Lieutenant Reynolds had a week or ten days in which to make his selection, so he studied

the muster rolls of the companies carefully. He had ranged under such great captains as

Perry, D. W. Roberts, Neal Coldwell, and with Major Jones himself. He knew what qualities

were needed in a good Ranger and made his selections accordingly. From old Company A

Reynolds selected C. L. Nevill, Tom Gillespie, Shape Rodgers, Jack Martin, W. T.

Clements, and four others whose names I do not now remember. These were the scouts

who had helped him capture the Horrells and naturally were his first choice. From

Company E came Dick Ware, who one year later killed the noted train robber, Sam

Bass, then served Mitchell County as its first sheriff for many years, and was finally

appointed United States marshal for the western district of Texas by President


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Cleveland. Henry Thomas, Millard Mourland, George Arnett, and other Company E

boys were selected. Henry Maltimore, Ben and Dock Carter, Bill Derrick, Chris Connor,

Henry McGee, Abe Anglin, J. W. Warren, Dave Ligon, Lowe Hughes, George

(Hog) Hughes, and others were picked from Company C.

When he had exhausted the two companies, Reynolds turned to General Jones and

said, “There is a Ranger down on the Rio Grande in Neal Coldwell’s company that I

want.”

“Who is it?” asked the general.

“Private Jim Gillett.”

“You shall have him,” promised General Jones. “I will send an order to Captain

Coldwell tonight to have Gillett report to you here.”

It was late in the evening when Company A’s mail came in from Frio Town, but

Captain Coldwell sent for me as soon as General Jones’s order arrived, and told me

that I must leave the company next morning and report to the adjutant general at Austin.

I was nonplussed, for I did not know what the order meant. Out on the frontier where

we then were operating we seldom read newspapers or heard what the other companies

were doing, so I did not even know that Reynolds had captured the Horrell boys and had

been commissioned to command Company E. The following morning I bade Captain

Coldwell and the Company A boys good-bye and started on my long ride to Austin.

As I jogged along I asked myself many times why I was ordered to report at

Austin, and, boy-like, it made me nervous and uneasy. It took me two days to reach


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San Antonio and three more to ride to Austin. I arrived in the latter town just at nightfall,

but I was at the adjutant general’s office as soon as it was opened next morning.

Presently General Jones entered with some officers of the state militia. He shook

hands with me and invited me to be seated, saying he had some business to attend to for the

moment. It was probably an hour before the officers left and the general could turn to me.

He very kindly inquired as to my trip and asked about Captain Coldwell and the company. He

then told me about the arrest of the Horrell boys and Sergeant Reynolds commission as

first lieutenant commanding Company F, vice Lieutenant Foster resigned. He

explained Reynolds had requested that I be attached to his command, and ordered me to

report to my new commander in Lampasas without delay.

I excused myself at once and lost no time in getting my horse out of the livery stable

and resuming my way. A great load was lifted from my mind, and I was about as happy as a

boy could be. I sang and whistled all the way to Liberty Hill, thirty miles from Austin.

The following day about two p.m. I rode into Reynolds camp at Hancock Springs.

I attracted some attention as I rode in, for I wore a big Mexican hat mounted with

silver, and a buckskin jacket fringed from shoulder to elbow, with a bunch of flowers braided

in highly colored silk on its back. On my heels were enormous Mexican spurs. I never

saw a Ranger sent to the Rio Grande for the first time who did not rig himself out in

some such outlandish attire, only to discard it a few weeks later, never to wear it again. I

was no exception, and I think every man in camp tried on my hat.


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Lieutenant Reynolds selected C. L. Nevill for first sergeant, Henry W. McGee as

second sergeant, and J. W. Warren and L. W. Conner, f irst and second corporals,

respectively. On September 1, 1877, the company was sworn in. The new command was

the most formidable body of men I had ever seen. Our commander, Lieutenant

Reynolds, was over six feet tall and weighed probably one hundred and seventy-five pounds.

He was a very handsome man, a perfect blond, with steel-blue eyes and a long, light

moustache. At that time he was about thirty years of age, vigorous in mind and body, and

had a massive determination to succeed as a Ranger. His mind was original, bold,

profound, and quick, with a will that no obstacle could daunt. He was the best Ranger in

the world—there was never another like him. The lieutenant was a native of Missouri,

and was always known as Major or “Mage” Reynolds. It was said that Reynolds,

though a mere boy, had served with the Confederates in the latter part of the Civil

War. He was one of a party that captured a troop of Federal cavalry, the major of

which was well supplied with clothing. The captors, however, were very scantily clad and

Reynolds appropriated the major’s uniform, hence his nickname “Mage.” In later

years, when I had grown more intimate with him and was probably closer to him than

any other, I mentioned this story. He neither affirmed nor denied it, declaring he was a

Missourian by birth, a bootmaker by trade, and that his early history could interest no

one.

First Sergeant Nevill was six feet and one inch in height and weighed one hundred

and eighty-five pounds. All the non-commissioned officers were at least six feet tall and built


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in proportion, and many of the privates were from five feet eleven inches to six feet in height.

I was probably the lightest man in the company, being only five feet nine inches and weighing

but one hundred and forty pounds.

When the company’s roster was complete Lieutenant Reynolds had but twenty-eight

men—lacking two of his full complement of thirty. The company was then ordered to

Austin, but before being assigned to its position on the frontier the lieutenant enlisted

John and Will Banister, two celebrated frontiersmen. They were old cowboys, splendid

riders, good shots, and well acquainted with every part of Kimble, Menard, Mason, and Kerr

counties, in which Company E was destined to operate. In appearance and ability this

company compared favorably with any thirty Rangers ever sent to the Texas frontier.

Nearly every member of the company had had more or less experience as an officer, and all

were exceedingly fine marksmen. Sergeant Henry McGee had been marshal of Waco and had

figured in several pistol duels in that city. Dave Ligon, the oldest man in the command,

had been a Confederate soldier and had served with General Forrest’s cavalry.

In the summer of 1877 Lieutenant Armstrong of Captain Hall’s company,

assisted by Detective Jack Duncan of Dallas, Texas, captured the notorious John Wesley

Hardin. It has been said by some wag that Texas, the largest state in the Union, has never

produced a real world’s champion at anything. Surely this critic overlooked Hardin, the

champion desperado of the world. His life is too well known in Texas for me to go into

detail, but, according to his own story, which I have before me, he killed no fewer than

twenty-seven men, the last being Charley Webb, deputy sheriff of Brown County,


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Texas. So notorious had Hardin become that the state of Texas offered $4,000 reward

for his capture. Hardin had left Texas and at the time of his capture was in Florida.

His captors arrested and overpowered him while he was sitting in a passenger coach.

In September 1877, Sheriff Wilson of Comanche County, in whose jurisdiction

Hardin had killed Webb, came to Austin to convey the prisoner to Comanche for trial.

Wilson requested the governor for an escort of Rangers. Lieutenant Reynolds

company, being in Austin at the time, was ordered to accompany Wilson and protect

Hardin from mob violence. This was the first work assigned Company E under its new

commander.

The day we left Austin between one and two thousand people gathered about the Travis

County jail to see this notorious desperado. The Rangers were drawn up just outside the

jail, and Henry Thomas and myself were ordered to enter the prison and escort Hardin out.

Heavily shackled and handcuffed, the prisoner walked very slowly between us. The boy

who had sold fish and game on the streets of Austin was now guarding the most

desperate criminal in Texas; it was glory enough for me.

At his trial Hardin was convicted, and sentenced to twenty-five years in the penitentiary.

He appealed his case and was returned to Travis County for safekeeping. The verdict of

the trial court was sustained, and one year later, in September 1878, Lieutenant

Reynolds company was ordered to take Hardin back to Comanche County for sentence.

There was no railroad at Comanche at that time, so a detachment of Rangers, myself

among them, escorted Hardin to the penitentiary. There were ten or twelve


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indictments still pending against him for murder in various counties, but they were never

prosecuted.

Hardin served seventeen years of his sentence, and while in prison studied law.

Governor Hogg pardoned him in 1894 and restored him to full citizenship.

Despite all the kind advice given him by eminent lawyers and citizens, Hardin

was unequal to the task of becoming a useful man. He practiced law for a time in

Gonzales, then drifted away to El Paso, where he began drinking and gambling. On

August 19, 1895, he was standing at a bar shaking dice when John Selman, constable of

Precinct No. 1, approached him from behind and with a pistol blew his brains out.

Though posing as an officer, Selman was himself an outlaw and a murderer of the worst

kind. He killed Hardin for the notoriety it would bring him and nothing more.

After delivering Hardin to the sheriff of Travis County in 1877, Lieutenant

Reynolds was ordered to Kimble County for duty. Of all the counties in Texas at that time

Kimble was the most popular with outlaws and criminals, for it was situated south

of Menard County on the North and South Llano rivers, with cedar, pecan, and

mesquite timber in which to hide, while the streams and mountains furnished fish, game, and

wild cattle in abundance for subsistence.

On the South Llano lived old Jimmie Dublin. He had a large family of children,

most of them grown. The eldest of his boys, Dick, or Richard, as he was known, and a

friend, Ace Lankford, killed two men at a country store in Lankford’s Cove, Coryell County,

Texas. The state offered $500 for the arrest of Dublin and the county of Coryell an


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additional $200. To escape capture Dick and his companion fled west into Kimble

County. While I was working as cowboy with Joe Franks in the fall of 1873 I

became acquainted with the two murderers, for they attached themselves to our outfit.

They were always armed and constantly on the watch for fear of arrest. Dublin was a large

man, stout and of dark complexion, who looked more like the bully of a prize ring than

the cowman he was. I often heard him say he would never surrender. While cow

hunting with us he discovered that the brushy and tangled region of Kimble

County offered shelter for such as he, and persuaded his father to move out into that county.

Dublin had not lived long in Kimble County before another son, Dell Dublin, killed

Jim Williams, a neighbor. Thus two of the Dublin boys were fugitives charged with murder.

They were supposed to be hiding near their father’s home. Bill Allison, Starke Reynolds,

and a number of bandits, horse and cattle thieves, and murderers were known to be in

Kimble County, so Lieutenant Reynolds was sent with his company to clean them up.

It was late in October 1877, when the company reached its destination and

camped on the North Llano River below the mouth of Bear Creek. As soon as our horses

were rested and camp was fully established for the winter we began scouting. Several

men wanted on minor charges were captured. We then raided Luke Stone’s ranch,

which was about ten miles from our camp, and captured Dell Dublin. He was fearfully

angry when he found escape impossible. He tore his shirt bosom open and dared the Rangers to

shoot him. While he was being disarmed his elder brother, Dick, rode out of the brush and

came within gunshot of the ranch before he discovered the presence of the Rangers.


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He turned his horse quickly and made his escape, though the Rangers pursued him some

distance and fired many shots at him. When Dick learned that the Banister boys and myself

were with Lieutenant Reynolds company and hot on his trail, remembering us as beardless

boys with the Joe Franks’s cow outfit, he declared he would whip us with a quirt as a man

would whip a dog if he ever came upon us. However, he never attempted to make good

his threat, but took very good care to keep out of our way until the fatal January 18, 1878.

There was no jail in Kimble County, so with a detachment of Rangers I took Dell

Dublin and our other prisoners to the Llano County lockup.

Shortly afterward Reynolds selected Sergeant McGee, Tom Gillespie, Dick Harrison,

and Tim McCarthy and made a scout into Menard County. He also had with him his

negro cook, George, to drive his light wagon. On the return toward Bear Creek the

scout camped for the night at Fort McKavett. At that time each frontier post had its chihuahua

or scab town, a little settlement with gambling halls, saloons, etc., to catch the soldiers

dollars. At Fort McKavett were many discharged soldiers, some of them negroes from the

Tenth Cavalry. These blacks had associated with white gamblers and lewd women until

they thought themselves the equals of white men, and became mean and overbearing.

On this particular night these negro ex-soldiers gave a dance in scab town, and our negro,

George, wanted to go. He was a light mulatto, almost white, but well thought of by all the

boys in the company. He obtained Lieutenant Reynolds permission to attend the

dance, and borrowed Tim McCarthy’s pistol to carry to it. When George arrived at

the dance hall the ex-soldiers did not like his appearance, as he was allied with the


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Rangers, whom they despised. They jumped on George, took his pistol, and kicked him

out of the place. The boys were all in bed when George returned and told McCarthy

that the negroes at the dance hall had taken his pistol from him.

Lieutenant Reynolds was sleeping near by and heard what George said. He raised

up on his elbow and ordered Sergeant McGee to go with McCarthy and George

and get the pistol. The negroes saw McGee coming and, closing the door, defied him to

enter the dance hall.

McGee was cool and careful. He advised the negroes to return the pistol, but they

refused, saying they would kill the first white-livered who attempted to enter the house. The

sergeant then stationed himself at the front door, ordered McCarthy to guard the

back entrance of the place, and sent George for the lieutenant. Reynolds hurried to the

scene, taking with him Tom Gillespie and Dick Harrison. He knocked on the door and

told the blacks he was the commander of the Rangers and demanded their surrender.

They replied with an oath that they would not do so. Reynolds then ordered the house

cleared of women and gave the negroes five minutes in which to surrender.

Up to this time the women had been quiet, but they now began to scream. This

probably demoralized the men. One of them poked McCarthy’s pistol, muzzle foremost,

out of a window.

“Here, come get your damned pistol,” he said.


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McCarthy, a new man in the service, stepped up and grasped it. The instant the negro

felt the touch of McCarthy’s hand on the weapon he pulled the trigger. The ball pierced

McCarthy’s body just above the heart, giving him a mortal wound.

At the crack of the pistol the Rangers opened fire through the doors and windows

on the negroes within the house. Reynolds and his men then charged the place, and when the

smoke of battle cleared they found four dead men and a little girl who had been killed by

accident. Only one black escaped. He was hidden under a bed, and as the Rangers came in,

made a dash to safety under cover of darkness. McCarthy died the following day and was

buried near old Fort McKavett. Negro George fought like a tiger and won the boys praise.

A few days afterward the sheriff of Tom Green County, following the trail of a

bunch of stolen cattle from San Angelo, came into our camp. Lieutenant Reynolds sent

Sergeant Nevill and a scout of Rangers with the sheriff. The trail led over to the South

Llano, where the cattle were recovered. While scouting around the herd, Sergeant Nevill

discovered a man riding down the trail toward him. He and his men secreted themselves and

awaited the stranger’s approach. It was getting quite dark, and when the newcomer

had ridden almost over the concealed Rangers without noticing their presence they rose up,

presented their guns, and ordered him to halt.

“Yes—like hell!” he exclaimed, and, turning his horse, dived into a cedar brake.

A shower of bullets followed, but failed to strike the fugitive. It was the notorious Dick

Dublin with a $700 reward on his head.


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Sergeant Nevill returned to camp with about fifty head of cattle on which the

brand had been defaced with a hot iron, but he had let the most notorious criminal in the

county escape. Lieutenant Reynolds was disappointed at this, and said he did not

understand how four crack Rangers could let a man ride right over them and then get

away. He declared his negro cook could have killed Dublin had he been in their place.

This mortified the boys a great deal.

The latter part of December 1877, Lieutenant Reynolds sent a scout out on Little

Saline, Menard County. On Christmas Day this detail had a running fight with four men.

John Collins, the man who stole a yoke of oxen at Fredericksburg and drove them up

to within two miles of our camp, was captured, as was also John Gray, wanted for murder

in one of the eastern counties. Jim Pope Mason, charged with the murder of Rance

Moore, was in this skirmish, but escaped.

One cold morning about the middle of January Corporal Gillett, with Privates John

and Will Banister, Tom Gillespie, Dave Ligon, and Ben Carter, was ordered on a

five days scout. We saddled our horses and packed two mules. When all was ready I

walked over to Lieutenant Reynolds. He was sitting on a campstool before his tent and

seemed in deep study. I saluted and asked for orders.

“Well, Corporal,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “it is a scout after Dick

Dublin again. That man seems to be a regular Jonah to this company. He lives only ten

miles from here and I have been awfully disappointed at not being able to effect his capture. It is


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a reflection of all of Company D. There is one thing sure, if I can’t capture him I will make life

miserable for him. I will keep a scout in the field after him constantly.”

I then asked if he had any instruction as to the route I should travel.

“No, no,” he replied. “I rely too much on your judgment to hamper you with orders. After

you are once out of sight of camp you know these mountains and trailers better than I do. Just go

and do your best. If you come in contact with him don’t let him get away.”

After riding half a mile from camp the boys began inquiring where we were going and

who we were after. I told them Dick Dublin. We quit the road and traveled south from our camp

over to the head of Pack Saddle Creek. Here we turned down the creek and rounded up the Potter

ranch, but no one was at home, so we passed on into the cedar brake without having been seen.

On the extreme headwaters of South Llano River come cattlemen had built a large stock

pen and were using it to confine wild cattle. This was far out beyond any settlement and probably

fifty or sixty miles from our camp. I thought it possible that Dick Durbin might be hanging

around the place, so we traveled through the woods most of the way to it. Here I found that he

cattlemen had moved.

The scout had now been out two days, so we began our return journey. We traveled

probably twenty-five miles on the third day. On the fourth day I timed myself to reach the Potter

ranch about night. Old man Potter, a friend and neighbor of Dublin’s, lived here with two grown

sons. It was known that Dublin frequented the place, and I hoped to catch him here unawares.

About sundown we were within a mile of the ranch. Here we unsaddled our horses and

prepared to round up the house. If we met with no success we were to camp there for


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the night. I left John Banister and Ligon to guard camp while Gillespie, Will Banister,

and Ben Carter, with myself, approached the ranch on foot. If I found no one there I

intended to return to our camp unseen and round up the ranch again the following morning.

We had not traveled far before we discovered a man riding slowly down the trail to the

Potter ranch. We remained hidden and were able to approach within fifty yards of the

house without being seen. We now halted in the bed of a creek, squatting down in the

shallow water, for a short consultation. The one room cabin had only a single door, and

before it was a small wagon. The Potters cooked out-of-doors between the house and the wagon.

We could see a horse tied to the south side of the vehicle, but could not see the campfire for

the wagon and the horse. To our right, and about twenty-five steps away, old man Potter and

one of his sons were unloading some hogs from a wagon into a pen.

We knew the moment we left the creek bed we would be in full view of the Potters

and the ranch house. We decided, then, that we would advance on the house as fast as we could

run and so be in good position to capture the man who had ridden into the camp. We

rose from the creek running. Old man Potter discovered us as we came into view and

yelled, “Run, Dick, run! Here come the Rangers!”

We then knew the man we wanted was at the camp. We were so close upon Dublin

that he had no time to mount his horse or get his gun, so he made a run for the brush. I was

within twenty-five yards of him when he came from behind the wagon, running as fast as a

big man could. I ordered him to halt and surrender, but he had heard that call too many


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times and kept going. Holding my Winchester carbine in my right hand I fired a shot

directly at him as I ran. In a moment he was out of sight.

I hurried to the place where he was last seen and spied him running up a little ravine. I

stopped, drew a bead on him, and again ordered him to halt. As he ran, Dublin threw his hand

back under his coat as though he were attempting to draw a pistol. I fired. My bullet struck

the fugitive in the small of the back just over the right hip bone and passed out near his left

collarbone. It killed him instantly. He was bending over as he ran, and this caused the

unusual course of my ball.

The boys, whom I had outrun, now joined me, and Carter fired two shots at Dublin

after he was down. I ordered him to desist as the man was dead. I examined the body to make

sure it was Dublin, for I knew him intimately, as I had cow-hunted with him before I became a

Ranger. We found him unarmed, but he had a belt of cartridges around his waist. He

was so completely surprised by our sudden appearance he could do nothing but run.

The $700 reward on him could never be collected, as it was offered for his arrest and

conviction. Dublin’s brothers, Role and Dell, swore vengeance against me and the

Banister boys, but nothing ever came of the oath.

In the month of February 1878, Lieutenant Reynolds started to Austin with five

prisoners we had captured in Kimble and Menard Counties. They were chained

together in pairs, John Stephens, the odd man, being shackled by himself. As guard for these

prisoners Reynolds had detailed Will and John Banister, Dave Ligon, Ben Carter, Dick

Ware, and myself.


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On the Junction City and Mason road, some ten miles east of our camp, was the

small ranch of Starke Reynolds, a fugitive from justice, charged with horse stealing and

assault to kill. Company E had scouted for him in Kimble County and had rounded up

his ranch many times. We knew he was in the county, but he always managed to escape

us. As we passed this ranch, Lieu tenant Reynolds and Privates Ware, Carter, Ligon and myself

were marching in front, with a four-mule wagon following us, in which were the chained

prisoners. Behind it came the Banisters, who were on guard that day and detailed to

keep a constant watch on the captive outlaws.

We passed the Starke Reynolds home about ten o’clock in the morning, and Lieutenant

Reynolds remarked that it was hardly worthwhile to round up the house as he had done so many

times in the past without result, but that he would surely like to capture the fellow. We

had not ridden more than half a mile beyond the ranch when we came face to face with

Starke himself. He was a small man and riding an exceedingly good brown pony. We

were about four hundred yards apart and discovered each other at the same instant. The

outlaw was carrying a small sack of flour in front of him. He immediately threw this down,

turned his horse quickly, and made a lightning dash for the Llano bottoms, some three miles

away.

At that point the Junction City and Mason road winds along a range of high

mountains with the country sloping downward to the Llano River. This grade was studded

with scrubby live oak and mesquite brush not thick enough to hide a man but sufficiently dense

to retard somewhat his flight through it. We gave chase at once and for a mile and a half


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it was the fastest race I ever saw the Rangers run. We were closely bunched the entire

distance, with Lieutenant Reynolds, who was riding a fast racehorse, always slightly in the lead.

He finally got close enough to the fugitive to demand his surrender. Starke only waved his gun

defiantly and redoubled his speed. Lieutenant Reynolds then drew his six-shooter and began

firing at the outlaw. After emptying this he began using his Winchester.

The Llano bottoms were now looming up in front of us. The race had been fast

enough to run every horse into a big limber, and Carter, Ware, and Ligon now dropped

out. Up to this time I had contented myself with trying to keep up with Lieutenant

Reynolds, for it is always easier to follow a man through the brush than to run in the lead. I

had a good grip on my bridle reins and was trying to steady my pony as best I could. I now

saw that the outlaw was beginning to gain on us. I ran up beside the lieutenant and said:

“He is getting away from us. May I go after him?”

Lieutenant Reynolds turned to me with the wildest look on his face I have ever seen.

His hat was gone, his face was badly scratched by the brush, and the blood was running down

over his white shirt bosom.

“Yes, goddamn him! Stop him or kill him!”

I changed the bridle reins to my left hand, drew my gun with my right and, digging

my spurs deep into my pony’s side, I was out of sight of the lieutenant in three hundred yards.

The fugitive saw that I was alone and that I was going to overhaul him. He suddenly brought

his pony to a standstill, jumped down, took shelter behind the animal, and drew a bead on

me with his gun.


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“Goddamn you, stop, or I’ll kill you!” he cried.

I tried to obey his order, but my pony was running down hill and ran straight at

him for twenty-five yards more before I could stop. I jumped down from my horse and made

ready to fight, but Starke broke for a thicket on foot. As soon as he ran out from behind his

pony I fired at him. The bullet must have come rather close to him, for he turned

quickly and took shelter behind his mount again. As he peeped over his saddle at me I

attempted to draw a bead on his head, but I was tried, nervous, and unsteady.

Before I could shoot, Dave Ligon galloped up to the outlaw and ordered him to surrender

and drop his gun, which Starke did at once. The boys had heard me shoot and in five minutes

were all on the scene.

The captive was searched and ordered to remount his pony. With one of the boys

leading it, we started back to the wagon, nearly three miles away. As soon as the outlaw was a

prisoner and knew he would not he harmed no matter what he said, he began a tirade

against the Rangers. He declared the whole battalion was a set of damned murderers,

especially Company E, and said it was curbstone talk in Menard, Mason, and Kimble

counties that Lieutenant Reynolds men would kill a man and then yell for him to

throw up his hands. He kept up this running talk until he exhausted Lieutenant Reynolds

patience. The latter then ordered Starke to shut up, and declared the speaker was a damned liar,

for Company E never killed a man without first giving him a chance to surrender.

Lieutenant Reynolds then said that with the last old brier-breaker captured he had

accomplished the task set him and was now ready to go elsewhere.


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As we rode along, one of the boys remarked that my pony was limping badly.

“I wish his leg would come r ight off up to his shoulder,” declared Starke in

disgust. “If it hadn’t been for him I would have made it to the bottoms and escaped.”

On approaching the wagon the prisoner Stephens, a man of some intelligence and

humor, stood up and called out to Starke, “By God, old man, they got you! They rode too

many corn-fed horses and carried too many guns for you. I don’t know who you are, but

I’m sorry for you. While they were chasing you I got down on my knees here in this wagon

and with my face turned up to the skies I prayed to the Almighty God that you might get away.”

Starke was chained to this good-natured liar, and now, for the first time, seemed to

realize his condition. He asked Lieutenant Reynolds to send word to his family that he

had been captured. The lieutenant thereupon sent one of the boys to Starke’s home to tell Mrs.

Reynolds that the Rangers would camp on Red Creek for dinner, and if she wished to

see her husband we would be there probably two hours.

Presently Starke’s old gray-haired father came to our midday camp. When he saw his

son chained, he burst out crying, saying: “My son, it is not my fault that you are in this

condition. I did my best to give you good advice and tried to raise you right.”

After dinner we resumed our march toward Austin. Starke Reynolds was finally

turned over to the sheriff of Tarrant County. He was admitted to bail and gave bond, but before

he came to trial he was waylaid and killed, supposedly by relatives of the man he had

previously attempted to murder.


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Early in the spring of 1878 a ranchman living five miles above our camp saw a bunch

of Indians on Bear Creek, Kimble County, and at once reported to Lieutenant Reynolds.

The redskins had been seen late in the evening, and by the time a scout could be

started after them it was almost night. The lieutenant, however, followed the trail until it

entered a cedar brake. It was then too dark to work farther, so the scout returned to

camp to make arrangements to resume the trail the following morning. On the march back

to camp the Rangers picked up a paint pony with an arrow sticking in its hip. The

Indians had probably tried to catch the horse and, failing to do so, had shot it, as was their

custom.

Just after dark a runner from Junction City came in and reported that a bunch of

redskins had been seen near the town stealing horses. It was a beautiful moonlight night and a

close watch was kept on our horses. At midnight John Banister, an alert man on guard,

noticed that one of our pack mules hitched at the end of our picket line was pulling

back on its rope and looking over a brush fence that enclosed the camp. With Winchester

in hand Banister passed through a gate and walked slowly down the fence and into

some small underbrush near the mule.

Suddenly a man rose to his feet and fired on Banister at a distance of not more than

ten steps, then broke and ran. Banister at once opened fire on the Indian. The very first

report of a gun brought every man in camp out of his bed. We could see the flashes of

Banister’s gun and went to his aid in our nightclothes and barefooted. I ran down by the

picket line of horses and jumped the fence where the mule had seen the redskin. By


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moonlight I could glimpse the Indian running down the riverbank. I shot at him several

times as he ran, but without effect. Some two hundred yards below our camp was a ford

on the Llano and the fugitive was making for it.

By the time he reached the crossing and plunged into the river, eight or nine of the

Rangers, who had followed Banister on the high ground, were in a position to shell the

swimmer as he crossed. Probably a hundred shots were fired at him, but he finally

disappeared in the brush on the south side of the river. A later inspection of the place where

he had crossed showed the timber cut all to pieces but, strange to say, not a shot hit him, as

far as we ever knew. We found a blanket where the savage had risen and shot at

Banister and, measuring the ground, found that the Ranger was but twelve short steps

from the Indian when fired upon. It was a miracle that he was not killed; the bullet, a .45

caliber, buried itself in some sacks of corn in a tent just back of him.

The next morning we found where ten or twelve Indians had waited under some

large pecan trees while this scout slipped up to our camp to investigate and steal a horse.

The trees were about four hundred yards from camp and on the opposite side of the river.

Some of the Rangers jokingly said those old braves must have thought their scout had stirred

up hell at the Ranger camp.

On account of the range cattle and horses along the Llano River, Lieutenant Reynolds

lost some eight or ten hours the next morning before picking up the Indian trail. This

gave the redskins ten or twelve hours start, as they were at our camp just at midnight. The

trail passed west between the North and South Llano rivers and followed a rough


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mountain country, which made pursuit difficult and slow. We followed the savages

five or six days and finally abandoned the trail near the head of Devils River after a heavy

rain.

While we had been active in rounding up the numerous outlaws and cattle

thieves who infested Kimble County, we had not been able to clear up the mystery of the

Peg Leg stage robbers, which had long baffled the best detectives, sheriffs, and

Rangers. Peg Leg was a small stage station on the San Saba in the midst of a rough and

very mountainous country. Here the stage was repeatedly held up, and as repeatedly

the robbers escaped. The scene of the holdup was many times examined and parties made

determined efforts to trail the bandits, but always without success, for the trail was

quickly lost in the rough mountains. One of the features that proved particularly puzzling

was the constant recurrence of an exceedingly small footprint at each robbery. These

marks were so small as to convince many observers that a woman from Fort McKavett or

Fort Concho was operating with the bandit gang. Naturally, the Rangers were anxious to round

up this group of outlaws and put a stop to their depredations.

In May 1878, Sergeant Nevill made a scout on the South Llano and captured Bill

Allison, a son-in-law of old Jimmie Dublin, father of the bandit, Dick Dublin. Allison was

wanted on several charges of cattle theft, and was taken to Austin for safekeeping.

After remaining in the Travis County jail for nearly a year without being able to give

bond, he became discouraged. He believed his brothers-in-law, the Dublins were not aiding him


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to get bond, and became bitter and resentful toward them. This antagonism finally led to the

unveiling of the Peg Leg mystery.

In the spring of 1879 Dick Ware and I took some prisoners to the Austin jail.

Allison saw us and called to me. He and I had been cowboys together long before I became a

Ranger.

“Jim,” said Allison, “you know I have been cooped up here in this jail for nearly a

year. People who ought to be my friends have evidently abandoned me and I am not going

to stand it any longer. I can put the Peg Leg stage robbers behind the bars, and I am going

to do it.”

Ware, who was something of a diplomat, said, “Hold on, Bill. If you have anything to

confess we will get an order from the sheriff to take you to see General Jones so you can talk

to him.”

The general at once wrote a note to Dennis Corwin, sheriff of Travis County, asking

that he let Allison accompany us to his office. The sheriff turned his prisoner over

to us and we took him to General Jones, who had a private interview with him for over an

hour. What Allison confessed we did not know, but we returned him to the jail.

General Jones moved quickly. He at once sent orders to Captain D. W. Roberts of

Company D, who was then stationed in Menard County, which joins Kimble County on the

north, to send a scout of Rangers into Kimble County and try to capture the Dublins, Mack

Potter, and Rube Boyce.


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Arriving in Kimble County, the detail arrested Role and Dell Dublin, Mack Potter,

and Rube Boyce. In the running fight that resulted in their capture Role received a bad

wound in the hip. The two Dublin brothers and Mack Potter when arraigned in federal court

pleaded guilty to stage robbery and were sentenced to fifteen years at hard labor. During

their trial the mystery of the Peg Leg robberies was finally cleared up. The Dublin boys

were the guiding spirits in the holdups and worked with great cleverness. Old man Jimmie

Dublin’s ranch on the South Llano was their headquarters. From the ranch to Peg Leg

Station on the San Saba it was about sixty miles across a rough, mountainous country. As

there were no wire fences in those days the robbers would ride over to the station, rob the

stage, and in one night’s ride regain their home. Traveling at night, they were never

observed. Dick Dublin, whose death while resisting capture has already been described,

was the leader of the bandit gang. Even the mystery of the tiny footprints was disclosed:

they were made by Mack Potter, who had an unusually small foot for a man.

While Rube Boyce was confined in the Travis County jail he made one of the most

sensational escapes in the criminal annals of Texas. Mrs. Boyce called at the prison with a suit

of clean underclothes for her husband. The basket in which she carried them was examined and

she was admitted into the cell of her husband. However, she had hidden a big .45 Colt’s

revolver about her person and smuggled it in. Rube changed his underwear, put the soiled

garments in the basket, and hid the pistol under them.

At the end of her visit Mrs. Boyce started out and Rube accompanied her down the

corridor to the door. Albert Nichols, the jailer, opened the door with his left hand to let the


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woman pass out, at the same time holding his pistol in his right hand. As the door swung open,

Rube reached into the basket he was carrying for his wife, whipped out the hidden pistol, thrust it

into the jailer’s face, and ordered him to drop his .45 and step within the jail. Realizing that a

second’s hesitation would mean his death, Nichols complied and was locked in by the outlaw.

Boyce then ran out of the backyard of the jail, mounted a pony that had been hitched

there for him, and galloped out of Austin, firing his pistol as he ran. He made a complete get-

away. Three or four years later he was arrested at Socorro, New Mexico, and returned to Austin.

At his trial for participation in the Peg Leg stage robberies he was acquitted, and perhaps justly

so, for Bill Allison declared to me that Dick Dublin with his brothers, Dell and Role, and Mack

Potter were the real robbers.

The arrest and conviction of the Dublins, together with the other men Lieutenant

Reynolds had captured or killed, completely cleaned out the stage robbers, cattle and horse

thieves, and murderers who had made Kimble County their rendezvous. Today, this is one of the

most prosperous and picturesque counties in the state. Its citizens are law-abiding and energetic.

Junction City, the county seat, is a fine town of probably twenty-five hundred inhabitants.

Forty years ago, the time of which I write, there were no courthouses in Kimble County.

The first district courts were held under the spreading boughs of a large oak tree. The Rangers

guarded the prisoners under another tree at a convenient distance from the judge and his

attendants.

Late in the spring or early summer of 1878 at a session of the County Court of San

Saba County, Billy Brown was being prosecuted by County Attorney Brooks for a


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violation of the prohibition laws. Brown took offense at a remark of the prosecuting

attorney and attempted to draw his six-shooter on him. T. J. T. Kendall, a law

partner of Brooks, saw Brown’s move and quickly whipping out his own pistol, killed

Brown in the courtroom. Then, fearing a mob if captured, Kendall fortified himself in a

second story of the courthouse and refused to surrender. He held the whole town at bay

while his wife administered to his wants. Meantime, he sent a hurry call to the nearest

Rangers asking for protection against mob violence. Captain Arrington received the

message and sent a detachment from Coleman to San Saba to preserve order.

General Jones was notified and ordered Lieutenant Reynolds at Junction City to march to

San Saba with his company, take charge of Kendall, and relieve Captain Arrington’s

men. It was probably two weeks after the killing before Company E reached San Saba,

but Mr. Kendall was still holding the fort in the upper story of the courthouse.

On the arrival of Reynolds company, Kendall asked the court for a preliminary

examination. When court convened, the prisoner waived examination and asked for

transference to the Travis County jail at Austin. The court, realizing the feeling against

him, ordered his removal thither.

When the time came to remove him a hack was driven up to the courthouse door,

where a great crowd had assembled to see the prisoner. Jim Brown, sheriff of Lee County,

and brother of Bill Brown, had taken his station, heavily armed, within ten feet of the door.

Just before Mr. Kendall descended the courthouse steps Lieutenant Reynolds ordered the

crowd to fall back fifty feet from the hack. All immediately obeyed with the exception of


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Jim Brown, who sat perfectly still on his horse. The lieutenant looked at Brown for a minute,

then turned to his Rangers and ordered them to draw their guns and move everyone fifty

yards from the courthouse. Like a flash every Ranger drew his gun, dismounted, and waved

the crowd back.

Brown turned to Reynolds and said, “I am going to Austin with you.”

“If you do, you will go in irons. Move back!”

Brown, who had killed several men, slowly turned his horse and rode away. He did

not know the man with whom he was dealing. Lawyer Kendall was thereupon carried to

Austin without incident. At his trial on the charge of murdering Brown he was acquitted.

When we reached Austin, Jim Brown met Lieutenant Reynolds on the street and

apologized for the way he had acted at San Saba. He said he had fully intended to kill

Kendall as he approached the hack, but the presence of so many Rangers caused him to

change his mind. Lieutenant Reynolds declared he was anticipating just such a move and

had instructed his men to shoot Brown into doll rags at his first move.

Soon after this Lieutenant Reynolds moved Company E down on the San Saba to a

beautiful pecan grove, an ideal summer camp, about two miles from the town of San Saba.

From this point we scouted all over Llano, Lampasas, Burnet, and San Saba counties at

our favorite pursuit of rounding up bad men. It was from this camp that we made our

sensational ride to Round Rock after Sam Bass, the notorious train robber.


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CHAPTER IX

SAM BASS AND HIS TRAIN ROBBER GANG

Sam Bass was born in Indiana, on a farm near Mi tche l l , Lawrence County , Ju ly

21 , 1851 . He c a m e t o T e x a s w h i l e a y o u t h a n d w o r k e d f o r W. F. (Dad)

Egan, sheriff of Denton County, until he reached manhood. While still an exemplary

and honest young man Bass came into possession of a race pony, a little sorrel mare.

On Saturday evenings, when most of the neighborhood boys met in Denton, Bass

raced his pony with much success. Mr. Egan soon noticed that Sam was beginning to

neglect his work because of his pony and, knowing only too well what this would lead

to, he advised Sam to sell his mare. Bass hesitated, for he loved the animal. Finally

matters came to such a point that Mr. Egan told Sam he would have to get rid of the

horse or give up his job. Thereupon Bass promptly quit, and this was probably the

turning point in his life.

Bass left Denton County in the spring of 1877 and traveled to San Antonio. Here

many cattlemen were gathered to arrange for the spring cattle drive to the north. Joel

Collins, who was planning to drive a herd from Uvalde County to Deadwood, Dakota,

hired Bass as a cowboy. After six months on the trail the herd reached Deadwood and

was sold and all the cowboys paid off by Mr. Collins.

At that period Deadwood was a great, wide-open mining town. Adventurers,

gamblers, miners, and cattlemen all mingled together. Though Joel Collins had bought his cattle

on credit and owed the greater part of the money he had received for them to his friends


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in Texas, he gambled it all away. When he sobered up and realized the money was gone he did

not have the moral courage to face his friends and creditors at home. He became

desperate, and with a band of his cowboys held up and robbed several stagecoaches in the

Black Hills. These robberies brought Collins very little booty, but they started Sam Bass

on his criminal career.

In the fall of 1877 Collins, accompanied by Bass, Jack Davis, J im Berry, Bil l

Heffr idge, and John Underwood, better known as Old Dad, left Deadwood and drifted

down to Ogallala, Nebraska. Here he conceived, planned, and carried into execution one

of the boldest train robberies that had ever occurred in the United States. When all

was ready these six men, heavily armed and masked, held up the Union Pacific train at

Big Springs, a small station a few miles beyond Ogallala. The bandits entered the express

car and ordered the messenger to open the safe. The latter explained that the through

safe had a time lock and could only be opened at the end of the route. One of the robbers

then began to beat the messenger over the head with a six-shooter, declaring he would kill

him if the safe were not opened. Bass, always of a kindly nature, pleaded with the man to desist,

declaring he believed the messenger was telling the truth. Just as the robbers were preparing to

leave the car without a cent, one of them noticed three stout little boxes piled near the

big safe. The curious bandit seized a coal pick and knocked off the lid of the top box. To

his great joy and delight he exposed $20,000 in shining gold coin! The three boxes each held

a similar amount, all in $20 gold pieces of the mintage of 1877.


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After looting these boxes the robbers went through the train, and in a systematic

manner robbed the passengers of about $5,000. Before daylight the bandits had hidden

their booty and returned to Ogallala. They hung around town several days while railroad

officials, United States marshals, and sheriffs parties were scouring the country for the train

robbers.

While in Ogallala, before and after the robbery, Collins and his men frequented

a large general merchandise store. In this store was a clerk by the name of Leech who had

once been an express messenger on the Union Pacific and who was well acquainted with

the officials of that company. Of course the great train robbery was the talk of the town.

Leech conversed with Collins and his gang about the holdup, and the bandits declared they

would help hunt the robbers if there was enough money in it.

The suspicions of Leech were aroused and he became convinced that Collins and

his band were the real holdup men. However, he said nothing to anyone about this

belief, but carefully watched them. Finally, Collins came to the store and, after buying

clothing and provisions, told Leech that he and his companions were going back to Texas and

would be up the trail the following spring with another herd of cattle. When Collins

had been gone a day’s travel, Leech hired a horse and followed him. He soon found the

route the suspects were traveling, and on the second day he came upon them suddenly

while they were stopping at a roadside farmhouse to have some bread cooked. Leech

passed by without being noticed and secreted himself near the highway. In a short time Collins

and his men passed on and Leech trailed them until they went into camp. When it was dark


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the amateur detective crept up to the bandits, but they had gone to sleep and he learned

nothing.

The next day Leech resumed the trail. He watched the gang make their camp for

the night and again crept up to within a few yards of them. The bandits had built a big fire and

were laughing and talking. Soon they spread out a blanket, and to the onlooker’s

great astonishment brought out some moneybags and emptied upon the blanket sixty

thousand dollars in gold. From his concealed position Leech heard the robbers discuss the

holdup. They declared they did not believe anyone had recognized or suspected them

and decided it was now best for them to divide the money, separate in pairs, and go their way.

The coin was stacked in six piles, and each man received $10,000 in $20 gold pieces. It

was further decided that Collins and Bill Heffridge would travel back to San Antonio

together; Sam Bass and Jack Davis were to go to Denton County, while Jim Berry

and Old Dad were to return to the Berry home in Mexico, Missouri.

As soon as Leech had seen the money and heard the robbers plans he slipped back to

his horse, mounted, and rode day and night to reach Ogallala. He notified the railroad

officials of what he had seen, and gave the names and descriptions of the bandits and their

destinations. This information was sent broadcast over southern Nebraska, Kansas,

Indian Territory, and Texas. In the fugitive list sent to each of the companies of

Rangers Sam Bass was thus described: “Twenty-five to twenty-six years old, 5 feet 7 inches

high, black hair, dark brown eyes, brown moustache, large white teeth, shows them when

talking; has very little to say.”


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A few days after the separation of the robbers, Joel Collins and Bill Heffridge rode

into a small place in Kansas called Buffalo Station. They led a pack pony. Dismounting from

their tired horses and leaving them standing in the shade of the store building, the two men

entered the store and made several purchases. The railroad agent at the place noticed

the strangers ride up. He had, of course, been advised to be on the lookout for the

train robbers. He entered the store and in a little while engaged Collins in conversation.

While talking, the robber pulled his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and exposed a

letter with his name thereon. The agent was a shrewd man. He asked Collins if he had not

driven a herd of cattle up the trail in the spring. Collins declared he had, and finally, in answer to

a direct question, admitted that his name was Joel Collins.

Five or six hundred yards from Buffalo Station a lieutenant of the United States

army had camped a troop of ten men that was scouting for the train robbers. As soon as

Collins and Heffridge remounted and resumed their way the agent ran to the soldiers

camp, pointed out the bandits to the lieutenant, and declared, “There go two of the Union

Pacific train robbers!”

The army officer mounted his men and pursued Collins and Heffridge. When he

overtook the two men he told them their descriptions tallied with those of some train robbers

he was scouting for, and declared they would have to go back to the station and be

identified.

Collins laughed at the idea, and said that he and his companion were cattlemen returning

to their homes in Texas. They reluctantly turned and started back with the soldiers. After


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riding a few hundred yards the two robbers held a whispered conversation. Suddenly

they pulled their pistols and attempted to stand off the lieutenant and his troop. The

desperadoes were promptly shot and killed. On examining their pack the soldiers found

tied up in the legs of a pair of overalls $20,000 in gold, 1877 mintage. Not a dollar of the

stolen money had been used, and there was no doubt about the identity of the men.

Not long after the separation of the robbers in Nebraska, Jim Berry appeared at his

home in Mexico, Missouri. At once he deposited quite a lot of money in the local bank

and exchanged $3,000 in gold for currency, explaining his possession of the gold by

saying he had sold a mine in the Black Hills. Three or four days later the sheriff of the

county learned of Berry’s deposits and called at the bank to see the new depositor’s gold. His

suspicion became a certainty when he found that Berry had deposited $20 gold pieces of

1877.

That night the sheriff with a posse rounded up Berry’s house, but the suspect

was not there. The home was well provisioned, and the posse found many articles of newly

purchased clothing. Just after daylight, while searching about the place the sheriff heard a

horse whinny in some timber near by. Upon investigating this he suddenly came upon Jim

Berry sitting on a pallet. Berry discovered the officer at about the same time and attempted to

escape by running. He was fired upon, one bullet striking him in the knee and badly

shattering it. He was taken to his home and given the best of medical attention, but gangrene set

in and he died in a few clays. Most of his $10,000 was recovered. Old Dad evidently quit Berry


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somewhere en route, for he made good his escape with his ill-gotten gain and was never

apprehended.

Sam Bass and Jack Davis, after the separation in Nebraska, sold their ponies and

bought a light spring wagon and a pair of workhorses. They placed their gold pieces in

the bottom of the wagon, threw their bedding and clothes over it, and in this disguise traveled

through Kansas and the Indian Territory to Denton County, Texas. During their

trip through the Territory, Bass afterward said, they camped within one hundred yards

of a detachment of cavalry. After supper they visited the soldiers camp and chatted

with them until bedtime. The soldiers said they were on the lookout for some train

robbers who had held up the Union Pacific in Nebraska, never dreaming for a moment

that they were conversing with two of them. The men also mentioned that two of the

robbers had been reported killed in Kansas.

This rumor put Bass and Davis on their guard, and on reaching Denton County

they hid in the elm bottoms until Bass could interview some of his friends. On meeting them

he learned that the name and description of every one of the train robbers was in the

possession of the law officers; that Collins, Heffridge, and Berry had been killed; and that

every sheriff in northern Texas was on the watch for Davis and himself. Davis at once

begged Bass to go with him to South America, but Bass refused, so Davis bade Sam goodbye

and set out alone. He was never captured. On his deathbed Bass declared he had once

received a letter from Jack Davis written from New Orleans, asking Bass to come there

and go into the business of buying hides.


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Bass had left Denton County early in the spring an honest, sincere, and clean young

man. By falling in with evil associates he had become within a few months one of the

most daring outlaws and train robbers of his time. Before he had committed any crime in the

state the officers of northern Texas made repeated efforts to capture him for the big reward

offered by the Union Pacific and the express company, but owing to the nature of the country

around Denton and the friends Bass had as long as his gold lasted, they met with no

success.

Bass’s money soon attracted several desperate and daring men to him. Henry

Underwood, a younger brother of Old Dad, Arkansas Johnson, Jim Murphy, Frank

Jackson, Pipes, Herndon, Bill Collins, the last named a cousin of Joel Collins, and

two or three others joined him in the elm bottoms. Naturally Bass was selected as

leader of the gang. It was not long before the outlaw chief planned and executed his first

train robbery in Texas, at Eagle Ford, a small station on the Texas Pacific Railroad, a

few miles out of Dallas. In quick succession the bandits held up two or three other trains, the

last being at Mesquite Station, ten or twelve miles east of Dallas. From this robbery

they secured about $3,000. They met with opposition here, for the conductor, though

armed with only a small pistol, bravely fought the robbers and seriously wounded one of

them.

The whole state was now aroused by the repeated train holdups. General Jones

hurried to Dallas and Denton to look over the situation and, strange to say, he arranged to

organize a company of Rangers at Dallas. Captain June Peak, a very able officer, was given the


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command. No matter how brave a company of recruits may be, it takes time and training to

get results from them, and when this raw company was thrown into the field against Bass

and his gang the bandit leader played with it as a child plays with toys. Counting the

thirty Rangers and the different sheriffs parties, there were probably one hundred men

in pursuit of the Bass gang.

Sam played hide-and-seek with them all and, it is said, never ranged any farther west

than Stephens County or farther north than Wise. He was generally in Dallas, Denton, or

Tarrant County. He would frequently visit Fort Worth or Dallas at night, ride up

with his men to some outside saloon, get drinks all around, and then vamoose. Finally, in a

fight at Salt Creek, Wise County, Captain June Peak and his Rangers killed Arkansas

Johnson, Bass’s most trusted lieutenant. About the same time as this battle the

Rangers captured Pipes, Herndon, and Jim Murphy and drove Bass and his two

remaining companions out of northern Texas.

After the fight on Salt Creek only Sam Bass, Sebe Barnes, and Frank Jackson

were left of the once formidable gang. These men had gained nothing from their three train

robberies in northern Texas, and were so hard pressed by the officers of the law on all sides that

Bass reluctantly decided to leave the country and try to make his way to Mexico. Through some

pretended friends of Bass, General Jones learned of the contemplated move. He, with Captain

Peak and other officers, approached Jim Murphy, one of Bass’s gang captured about the time of

the Salt Creek fight, who was awaiting trial by the federal authorities for train robbery, and

promised they would secure his release if he would betray Bass. Murphy hesitated and said his


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former chief had been kind to his family, had given them money and provisions, and that it

would be ungrateful to betray his friend. The general declared he understood Murphy’s position

fully, but Bass was an outlaw, a pest to the country, who was preparing to leave the state

and so could no longer help him. General Jones warned Murphy that the evidence against him

was overwhelming and was certain to send him to federal prison—probably for life—

and exhorted him to remember his wife and children. Murphy finally yielded and

agreed to betray Bass and his gang at the first opportunity.

According to the plan agreed upon, Murphy was to give bond and when the federal

court convened at Tyler, Texas, a few weeks later he was not to show up. It would then

be published all over the country that Murphy had skipped bond and rejoined Bass. This

was carried out to the letter. Murphy joined Bass in the elm bottoms of Denton County and

agreed to rob a train or bank and get out of the country. Some of Bass’s friends, suspicious of

Murphy’s actions, wrote Sam that he was playing a double game and advised him to kill the

traitor at once. Bass immediately confronted Murphy with these reports and reminded

him how freely he had handed out his gold to Murphy’s family. Bass declared he had

never advised or solicited Jim to join him, and said it was a low-down, mean, and

ungrateful trick to betray him. He told Murphy plainly if he had anything to say to say it

quickly. Barnes agreed with his chief and urged Murphy’s death.

The plotter denied any intention of betraying Bass and offered to take the lead in

any robbery he should plan and be the first to enter the express car or climb over the bank railing.

Bass was mad and so was Barnes. They determined to kill the liar at once. Frank Jackson had


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taken no part in the conversation, but he now declared he had known Murphy since he was a

little boy (they were, in fact, cousins), and he was sure Murphy was sincere and meant to

stand by them through thick and thin. Bass was not satisfied, and insisted that

Murphy be killed then and there. Jackson finally told Bass and Barnes that they could

not kill Murphy without first killing him. Although the youngest of the party—he

was only twenty-two years old—Jackson had great influence over his chief. He was brave

and daring, and Bass at that time could not very well get along without him, so his

counsel prevailed and Murphy was spared. The bandits then determined to quit the

country. Their plan was to rob a small bank somewhere en route to Mexico and thus

secure the funds needed to facilitate their escape, for they were all broke.

Bass, Sebe Barnes, Frank Jackson, and Jim Murphy left Denton County early in

July 1878. With his usual boldness, Bass, after he had passed Dallas County, made no

attempt at concealment, but traveled the public highway in broad daylight. Bass and Barnes were

still suspicious of Murphy, and never let him out of their sight, though they refused to

talk to him or to associate with him in any way. When Bass reached Waco the party

camped on the outskirts of the town and remained there two or three days. They visited the

town each day, looked over the situation, and in one bank saw much gold and currency. Jackson

was enthusiastic and wanted to rob it at once. Bass, being more careful and experienced, thought

it too hazardous an undertaking, for the run through crowded streets to the outskirts of the city

was too far, and so vetoed the attempt.


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While in Waco the gang stepped into a saloon to get a drink. Bass laid a $20 gold

piece on the bar and remarked, “There goes the last twenty of the Union Pacific

money, and damned little good it has done me.” On leaving Waco the robbers stole a fine

mare from a farmer named Billy Mounds and traveled the main road to Belton. They were

now out of money and planned to rob the bank at Round Rock, Williamson County.

General Jones was now getting anxious over the gang. Not a word had been

heard from Jim Murphy since he had rejoined the band, for he had been so closely watched that

he had had no opportunity to communicate with the authorities, and it seemed as if lie

would be forced to participate in the next robbery in spite of himself.

At Belton, Sam sold an extra pony his party had after stealing the mare at Waco. The

purchaser demanded a bill of sale, as the vendors were strangers in the country. While

Bass and Barnes were in a store writing out the required document, Murphy seized the

opportunity to write a short note to General Jones, saying, “We are on our way to

Round Rock to rob the bank. For God’s sake be there to prevent it.” As the post

office adjoined the store, the traitor succeeded in mailing his letter of betrayal a

moment before Bass came out on the street again. The gang continued their way to

Round Rock and camped near the old town, which is situated about one mile north of

new Round Rock. The bandits concluded to rest and feed their horses for three or

four days before attempting their robbery. This delay was providential, for it gave

General Jones time to assemble his Rangers to repel the attack.


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After Major Jones was made adjutant general of Texas he caused a small

detachment of four or five Rangers to camp on the Capitol grounds at Austin. He drew

his units from different companies along the line. Each unit would be detailed to camp

in Austin, and about every six weeks or two months the detail would be relieved by a

squad from another company. It will readily be seen that this was a wise policy, as the

detail was always on hand and could be sent in any direction by rail or on horseback at

short notice. Besides, General Jones was devoted to his Rangers and liked to have them

around where he could see them daily. At the time of which I write four men from

Company E—Corporal Vernon Wilson and Privates Dick Ware, Chris Connor, and Geo.

Harold—were camped at Austin. The corporal, who was a nephew of Governor Coke and

a well-educated man, helped General Jones as a clerk in his office, but was in charge

of the squad on the Capitol grounds, slept in camp, and had his meals with them.

When General Jones received Murphy’s letter he was astonished at Bass’s audacity in

approaching within fifteen or twenty miles of the state capital, the very headquarters of the

Frontier Battalion, to rob a bank. The letter was written at Belton, Texas, and received at

the adjutant general’s office on the last mail in the afternoon. The company of

Rangers nearest Round Rock was Lieutenant Reynolds Company E, stationed at San

Saba, one hundred and fifteen miles distant. There was no telegraph to San Saba then.

General Jones reflected a few minutes after receipt of the letter and then arranged his plan

rapidly.


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He turned to Corporal Wilson and told him that Sam Bass and his gang were, or soon

would be, at Round Rock, to rob the bank there.

“I want you to leave at once to carry an order to Lieutenant Reynolds. It is sixty-five

miles to Lampasas and you can make that place early enough in the morning to catch the

Lampasas and San Saba stage. You must make that stage at all hazards. Save neither

yourself nor your horse, but get these orders to Lieutenant Reynolds as quickly as possible,” he

ordered.

Corporal Wilson hurried to the livery stable, saddled his horse, and got away from Austin

on his wild ride just at nightfall. His horse was fresh and fat and in no condition to make such a

run. However, Wilson reached Lampasas at daylight next morning and made the outgoing

stage to San Saba, but killed his gallant little gray horse in doing it. From Lampasas

to San Saba was fifty miles, and it took the stage, which was a small, two-horse outfit, all day

to make the trip. As soon as he landed in town Wilson hired a horse and galloped three miles

down to Lieutenant Reynolds camp and delivered his orders.

After dispatching Corporal Wilson to Lieutenant Reynolds, General Jones hurried over to

the Ranger camp on the Capitol grounds and ordered the three Rangers, Ware, Connor, and

Harold, to proceed to Round Rock, put their horses in Highsmith’s livery stable, and keep

themselves concealed until he himself could reach them by train next morning. The following

morning General Jones went to Round Rock, accompanied by Morris Moore, an ex-

Ranger now serving as deputy sheriff of Travis County. On reaching his destination the

general called on Deputy Sheriff Grimes of Williamson County and told him Bass was


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expected in town to rob the bank, and that a scout of Rangers would be in town as soon as

possible. Jones advised Grimes to keep a sharp lookout for strangers, but on no account to

attempt an arrest until the Rangers could arrive.

I well remember the hot July evening when Corporal Wilson arrived in our camp with his

orders. The company had just had supper, and the horses had been fed and tied up for the

night. We knew the sudden appearance of the corporal meant something of unusual

importance. Soon Sergeant Nevill came hurrying to us with orders to detail a party

for an immediate scout. Lieutenant Reynolds orders had been brief, but to the point:

“Bass is at Round Rock. We must be there as early as possible tomorrow. Make a

detail of eight men and select those that have the horses best able to make a fast run. And

you, with them, report to me here at my tent ready to ride in thirty minutes.”

First Sergeant C. L. Nevill, Second Sergeant Henry McGee, Second Corporal J. B.

Gillett, Privates Abe Anglin, Dave Ligon, Bill Derrick, and John R. and W. L.

Banister were selected for the detail. Lieutenant Reynolds ordered two of our best little

pack mules hitched to a light spring hack, for he had been sick and was not in condition

to make the journey horseback. In thirty minutes from the time Corporal Wilson reached

camp we were mounted, armed, and ready to go. Lieutenant Reynolds took his seat in

the hack, threw some blankets in, and Corporal Wilson, who had not had a minute’s

sleep for over thirty-six hours; lay down to get a little rest as we moved along. We left our

camp on the San Saba River just at sunset and traveled in a fast trot and sometimes in a

lope the entire night.


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Our old friend and comrade, Jack Martin, then in the mercantile business at the

little town of Senterfitt, heard us pass by in the night, and next morning said to some of his

customers that hell was to pay somewhere as the Rangers had passed his store during the

night on a dead run.

The first rays of the rising sun shone on us at the crossing of North Gabriel,

fifteen miles south of Lampasas. We had ridden sixty-five miles that short summer night—we

had forty-five miles yet to go before reaching Round Rock. We halted on the Gabriel for a

breakfast of bread, broiled bacon, and black coffee. The horses had a bundle of oats each.

Lieutenant Reynolds held his watch on us and it took us just thirty minutes to breakfast

and be off again. We were now facing a hot July sun and our horses were beginning to

show the effects of the hard ride of the night before and slowed down perceptibly. We did not

halt again until we reached the vicinity of old Round Rock between one and two o’clock in

the afternoon of Friday, July nineteenth. The lieutenant camped us on the banks of

Brushy Creek and drove into new Round Rock to report his arrival to General Jones.

Bass had decided to rob the bank on Saturday, the twentieth. After his gang had

eaten dinner in camp Friday evening they saddled their ponies and started over to town to

take a last look at the bank and select a route to follow in leaving the place after the

robbery. As they left camp Jim Murphy, knowing that the bandits might be set upon

at any time, suggested that he stop at May’s store in old Round Rock and get a bushel

of corn, as they were out of feed for their horses. Bass, Barnes, and Jackson rode on into

town, hitched their horses in an alley just back of the bank, passed that building, and made a


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mental note of its situation. They then went up the main street of the town and entered

Copprel’s store to buy some tobacco. As the three bandits passed into the store,

Deputy Sheriff Moore, who was standing on the sidewalk with Deputy Sheriff Grimes,

said he thought one of the newcomers had a pistol.

“I will go in and see,” replied Grimes.

“I believe you have a pistol,” remarked Grimes, approaching Bass and trying to search

him.

“Yes, of course I have a pistol,” said Bass. At the words the robbers pulled their

guns and killed Grimes as he backed away to the door. He fell dead on the sidewalk. They

then turned on Moore and shot him through the lungs as he attempted to draw his weapon.

At the crack of the first pistol Dick Ware, who was seated in a barbershop only a few

steps away waiting his turn for a shave, rushed into the street and encountered the

three bandits just as they were leaving the store. Seeing Ware rapidly advancing on

them, Bass and his men fired on him at close range, one of their bullets striking a

hitching post within six inches of his head and knocking splinters into his face. This assault

never halted Ware for an instant. He was as brave as courage itself and never hesitated

to take the most desperate chance when the occasion demanded it. For a few minutes he

fought the robbers single-handed. General Jones, returning from the telegraph office, ran

into the fight. He was armed with only a small Colt’s double-action pistol, but threw himself into

the fray. Connor and Harold had now come up and joined in the fusillade. The general,

seeing the robbers on foot and almost within his grasp, drew in close and urged his men to strain


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every nerve to capture or exterminate them. By this time every man in the town who could

secure a gun had joined in the fight.

The bandits had now reached their horses, and realizing their situation was critical

they fought with the energy of despair. If ever a train robber could be called a hero, Frank

Jackson proved himself one. Barnes was shot down and killed at his feet and Bass was

mortally wounded and unable to defend himself or even mount his horse, while the bullets

continued to pour in like hail from every quarter. With heroic courage, Jackson held the

Rangers back with his pistol in his right hand while with his left he unhitched Bass’s horse

and assisted him into the saddle. Then, mounting his own horse, Jackson and his chief galloped

out of the very jaws of hell itself. In their flight they passed through old Round Rock, and

Jim Murphy, standing in the door of May’s store, saw them go by on the dead run. The

betrayer noticed that Jackson was holding Bass, pale and bleeding, in the saddle.

Lieutenant Reynolds, entering Round Rock, came within five minutes of meeting

Bass and Jackson in the road. Before he reached town he met posses of citizens and

Rangers in pursuit of the robbers. When the fugitives reached the cemetery they halted

long enough for Jackson to secure a Winchester they had hidden in the grass there; then

they left the road and were lost for a time. The battle was now over and the play spoiled

by two overzealous deputies bringing on a premature fight, after they had been warned to be

careful. Naturally, Moore and Grimes should have known that the three strangers were

the Sam Bass gang.


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Lieutenant Reynolds started Sergeant Nevill and his Rangers early next morning in

search of the flying bandits. After traveling some distance in the direction the robbers had

last been seen we came upon a man lying under a large oak tree. Seeing we were armed,

as we advanced upon him he called out to us not to shoot, saying he was Sam Bass, the

man we were hunting.

After entering the woods the evening before, Bass had become so sick and faint from loss

of blood that he could go no farther. Jackson had dismounted and wanted to stay with

his chief, declaring he was a match for all their pursuers.

“No, Frank,” replied Bass. “I am done for.”

The wounded leader told his companion to tie his horse near at hand so he could

get away if he should feel better during the night. Jackson was finally prevailed upon to

leave Bass and make his own escape.

When daylight came Saturday morning Bass got up and walked to a near-by house. As he

approached the place a lady, seeing him approaching covered with blood, left the

house and started to run off, as she was alone with a small servant girl . Bass saw

she was frightened and called to her to stop; saying he was perishing for a drink of water

and would return to a tree not far away and lie down if she would only send him a drink.

She sent him a quart cup of water, but the poor fellow was too far gone to drink it. We

found him under this tree an hour later. He had a wound through the center of his left

hand, the bullet having pierced the middle finger.


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Bass’s death wound was given him by Dick Ware, who used a .45 caliber Colt’s

long-barreled six-shooter. The ball from Ware’s pistol struck Bass’s belt, cutting two

cartridges in pieces and entering his back just above the right hipbone. The bullet mushroomed

badly, and made a fearful wound that tore the victim’s right kidney all to pieces. From the

moment he was shot until his death three days later Bass suffered untold agonies. As he lay

on the ground Friday night where Jackson had left him the wounded man tore his undershirt

into more than a hundred pieces and wiped the blood from his body.

Bass was taken to Round Rock and given the best of medical attention, but died

the following day. While he was yet able to talk, General Jones appealed to him to reveal to

the authorities the names of the confederates he had had that they might be apprehended.

“Sam, you have done much evil in this world and have only a few hours to live. Now,

while you have a chance to do the state some good, please tell me who your associates were in

those violations of the laws of your country.”

Sam replied that he could not betray his friends, and that he might as well die with what

he knew in him.

He was buried in the cemetery at old Round Rock, where a small monument was

erected over his grave by a sister. Its simple inscription, defaced in recent years by relic

seekers, read:

SAMUEL BASS

Born July 21st, 1851

Died July 21st, 1878


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A brave man reposes in death here. Why was he not true?

Frank Jackson made his way back to Denton County and hung around some time hoping

to get an opportunity to murder the betrayer of his chief, an ingrate whose cause he himself

had so ably championed. Jackson declared that if he could meet Jim Murphy he would

kill him, cut off his head, and carry it away in a gunnysack.

Murphy returned to Denton, but learned that Jackson was hiding in the elm bottoms

awaiting a chance to slay him. He thereupon asked permission of the sheriff to remain

about the jail for protection. While skulking about the prison one of his eyes became

infected. A physician gave him some medicine to drop into the diseased eye, at the same time

cautioning him to be careful as the fluid was deadly poison. Murphy drank the entire contents

of the bottle and was dead in a few hours. Remorse, no doubt, caused him to end his life.

Of the four men who fought the Round Rock battle with Sam Bass and his gang all

are dead. Of the ten men who made the long ride from San Saba to Round Rock, I, alone, am

still among the living.


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CHAPTER X

A WINTER OF QUIET AND A TRANSFER

In the fall of 1878 a stockman named Dowdy moved from southern Texas and

settled on the headwaters of the Johnson Fork of the Guadalupe River in Kerr

County. His family consisted of his wife, three grown daughters, a grown son, and a

young son twelve or fourteen years old. Mr. Dowdy owned two or three thousand sheep and

was grazing them on some fine upland pasture just above his home. He contracted for his

winter supply of corn, and when the first load of grain arrived at the ranch the three

girls walked out half a mile to where the sheep were grazing to stay with their younger

brother while the elder returned to the ranch to measure and receive the corn. When young

Dowdy returned to the sheep an hour later he was horrified to find that his three sisters and

his little brother had been massacred by a band of roving Indians. From the signs on a high

bluff near by, the sheep and their herders had been under observation by the redskins for

some time; on seeing the only man leave, they descended upon the defenseless girls and boy

and killed them. As there was no Ranger company within one hundred miles of Kerr

County at the time, a party of frontiersmen quickly gathered and followed the

murderers, but after pursuing them for nearly two hundred miles the posse lost the trail in

the rough Devils River country.

Kerr County then called for Rangers, and General Jones ordered Lieutenant

Reynolds to proceed thither and go into camp for the winter at the Dowdy ranch. This descent

upon the Dowdy family was the last raid ever made by Indians in Kerr County, and was


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perhaps the most heartrending. We herded our horses that winter on the very

ground where the unfortunate Dowdy girls and their brother were killed. At the time

they were murdered the ground was soft and muddy from a recent rain, and for

months afterward could be seen the marks where the poor girls had run on foot while

the Indians charged on horseback. One of the young women had run nearly four

hundred yards before she was overtaken and shot full of arrows. The murderers were

probably Kickapoos and Lipans from the Santa Rosa Mountains of Mexico. They

frequently raided southwestern Texas, stole hundreds of horses, and killed many people. While

guarding their horses on the ground where the Dowdy family was killed, the Rangers built a

rock monument eight or ten feet high to mark the spot where the victims fell.

Lieutenant Reynolds kept scouting parties in the field at intervals throughout the

winter but Indians never strike twice in the same place and the winter of 1878-1879 was

the quietest one I ever spent as a Ranger. Kerr County was pretty well cleared of outlaws

and we made fewer arrests that season than ever before.

The Rangers encountered but one real bad man in Kerr County. His name was

Eli Wixon, and he was wanted for murder in eastern Texas. It was known that he would be at

the polls to vote on election day in November, so Lieutenant Reynolds sent Corporal Warren and

Privates Will Banister, Abe Anglin, and Charles Ware to arrest him. Corporal Warren

found his man at the polls and lost no time in telling Wixon what he was there for, ordering

him to unbuckle his belt and drop his pistol. Wixon hesitated, and finally called on his friends

to protect him from the Rangers.


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The crowd came to his relief, and for a time it looked as if there would be trouble.

Wixon abused the Rangers, called them a set of dirty dogs, and dared them to shoot him.

Corporal Warren was brave and resolute. He told Wixon his abuse did not amount to

anything; the Rangers were there to arrest him, and were going to do it. The corporal

warned the citizens to be careful how they broke the law and said that if they started

anything Wixon would be the first man killed.

Then, while Banister, Anglin, and Ware held the crowd back with their Winchesters,

Warren disarmed Wixon, grasped his bridle reins, and led him away without further

trouble. Lieutenant Reynolds took no chances with men of this sort, and as soon as

Wixon was in camp he was promptly handcuffed and shackled. This measure usually took the

nerve out of all so-called bad men, and it worked like a charm with our new prisoner.

As the winter wore on Lieutenant Reynolds, with but little to do, became restless.

He once said of himself that he never had the patience to sit down in camp and wait for a

band of Indians to raid the county so he might get a race. Action was what he wanted all the

time, and when compelled to sit idly in camp he chafed like a chained bear.

When the legislature met early in 1879 it became known that it would be difficult

to get an appropriation for frontier defense. From time immemorial there has been an

element in the legislature from eastern Texas which has fought the Ranger appropriation,

and in this instance that element fought the Ranger bill harder than ever. The fund

appropriated for frontier defense two years before was now running short, and in order to make it

last until it could be ascertained what the legislature would do, it became necessary for General


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Jones to order the various captains to discharge three men out of each company. A week

later a similar order was promulgated, and this process was kept up until the

battalion was reduced to almost one-half its former strength. Lieutenant Reynolds

was compelled to sit idly by and see his experienced Rangers dwindle away before his eyes,

and what he said about those shortsighted law makers would not look well in print.

In March 1879, Captain Pat Dolan, commander of Company F, then stat ioned on

the Nueces River , seventy-five miles southwest of Reynolds company, wrote the

latter that a big band of horse and cattle thieves were reported operating in the

vicinity of the head of Devils River and along the Pecos. He wished to take a month’s

scout out in that country, but since the Ranger companies had been so reduced he did not

feel strong enough alone to operate against them and leave a reserve in his own camp.

He asked Lieutenant Reynolds, therefore, to send a detachment to cooperate with him. I

was now a second sergeant, and with five men I was ordered to report to Captain Dolan for a

three weeks scout on Devils River and the Pecos. I reported to the commander of Company F

and we scouted up the Nueces River, then turned west to Beaver Lake on the head of Devils

River. From the lake we went over on Johnson’s Run and covered the country thoroughly, but

without finding the reported outlaws.

One morning after starting out on our day’s scout, Captain Dolan halted the

command, and taking with him Private Robb, went in search of water. A heavy fog came up

after he left us and hung over the country the greater part of the day. The captain did not

return to us, and Sergeant G. K. Chinn ordered his men to fire their guns to give the lost


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ones our position. We remained in the vicinity until night, and then returned to Howard’s Well,

a watering place on Johnson’s Run. The following morning we scouted out to the point

from which the captain had left us the day before. It was now clear, with the sun

shining brightly, but the lost men could not be found. Dolan was an experienced

frontiersman, and we concluded that, after finding himself lost in the fog, he would return

to his headquarters on the Nueces, one hundred and twenty-five miles away. Sergeant Chinn,

therefore, headed the command for this camp, and when we reached it we found Captain

Dolan and Private Robb had preceded us. They had traveled through a bad Indian country

with nothing to eat but what venison they had killed.

From Dolan’s company I marched my detail back to Company E by easy stages

and reached our camp at Dowdy’s ranch the last week in March with our horses ridden

down. We had covered something like five hundred miles without accomplishing anything.

As soon as I arrived I walked up to the lieutenant’s tent to make my report. There I

was met by First Sergeant C. L. Nevill, who told me that Lieutenant Reynolds had

resigned and left the company. At first I thought the sergeant was only joking, but when I

was convinced that the lieutenant had really gone I was shocked beyond measure. The

blow was too strong and sudden for me, and I am not ashamed now at sixty-eight years of age

to admit that I slipped out of camp, sat down on the bank of the Guadalupe River, and cried

like a baby. It seemed as if my best friend on earth had gone forever. Reynolds had had me

transferred from Coldwell’s company to his own when I was just a stripling. As soon as I

was old enough to be trusted with a scout of men and the vacancies occurred I was


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made second corporal, first corporal, and then second sergeant. I was given the best

men in the company and sent against the most noted outlaws and hardened criminals in

the state. Lieutenant Reynolds had given me every chance in the world to make a

name for myself, and now he was gone. I felt the loss keenly. I feel sure the records now on

file in Austin will bear me out when I say Reynolds was the greatest captain of his

time; the state lost a matchless officer when “Mage” Reynolds retired to private life. After

leaving the Ranger service he made Lampasas his home and served that county as its sheriff for

several terms.

The legislature finally made a small appropriation for frontier defense. Sergeant Nevill

was ordered to report at Austin with Company E for the reorganization of the

command. Reynolds resignation practically broke up the company, and though Sergeant

Nevill was made lieutenant of Company E and afterward raised to a captaincy and left

behind him an enviable record, yet he was not a “Mage” Reynolds by a long shot.

On reaching Austin, R. C. Ware and the Banister boys secured their transfers to

Captain Marsh’s Company B, while the Carter boys, Ben and Dock, C. R. Connor, and

Bill Derrick resigned the service and retired to private life. Abe Anglin became a policeman

at Austin. Henry Maltimore and myself, at our request, were transferred to Lieutenant

Baylor’s Company C for duty in El Paso County. With my transfer to this command the

winter of inaction was over, and I was soon to see some exciting times along the upper Rio

Grande.


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CHAPTER XI

THE SALT LAKE WAR A N D A LONG TREK

At the foot of the Guadalupe Mountains, one hundred miles east of El Paso, Texas, are

situated several large salt deposits known as the Salt Lakes. These deposits were on

public land. For a hundred years or more the residents along the Rio Grande in El Paso

County and in northern Mexico had hauled salt from the lakes free of charge, for there

was no one to pay, as the deposits were not claimed by any owner. All one had to do

was to back a wagon to the edge of the lake, shovel it full of salt, and drive off.

From San Elizario to the Salt Lakes was a distance of ninety miles, and there was not a

drop of water on the route. The road, which had long been traveled by big wagon trains, was

almost as straight as an arrow and in fine condition. The salt-haulers would carry water

in barrels to what was known as the Halfway Station, about forty-five miles from

San Elizario. Here they would rest and water their horses and leave half their water

for the return trip. They would then push on to the lakes, load their wagons, and rest the

teams a day or two; on their return trip they would stop at the Halfway Station to

water their animals and throw the empty barrels on top of the salt, and then continue

without further halt to San Elizario on the Rio Grande.

Charley Howard, after his election as judge of the El Paso District, made his home

at the old town of Franklin, now known as El Paso. He saw the possibilities of these salt lakes as

a money-making proposition and, knowing they were on public land, wrote his father-in-law,

George B. Zimpleman, at Austin, to buy some land certificates and send them to him so he could


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locate the land covering the salt deposits. As soon as the land was located Judge Howard forbade

anyone to haul salt from the lakes without first securing his permission. The Mexicans

along both sides of the Rio Grande adjacent to El Paso became highly indignant at

this order. A sub-contractor on the overland mail route between El Paso and Fort

Davis named Luis Cardis supported the Mexicans, and told them Howard had no right

to stop them from hauling salt. Cardis was an Italian by birth, who had come to

El Paso County in 1860, married a Mexican wife, identified himself with the county, and

become prominent as a political leader. He was a Republican, while Judge Howard was a

Democrat. Cardis and Howard soon became bitter enemies, and in September 1878, the

conflict between them became so acute that Howard killed his opponent with a double-

barrel shotgun in S. Shultz and Brothers store in Franklin. This at once precipitated the

contest known as the Salt Lake War, for grave threats were made against Howard by the

Mexicans.

After killing Cardis, Judge Howard fled to New Mexico, and from his seclusion

in that state he called on the governor of Texas to send Rangers to El Paso to protect him

and the courts over which he presided. At that time not a company of the Frontier Battalion

was within five hundred miles of the town. El Paso was seven hundred and fifty miles by stage

from San Antonio or Austin and the journey required about seven days and nights of travel

over a dangerous route—an unusually hard trip for any passenger attempting it.

The governor of Texas, therefore, sent Major John B. Jones from Austin to

Topeka, Kansas, by rail and thence as far west into New Mexico as the Santa Fe


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Railroad ran at that time, and thence by stage down to El Paso. Major Jones dropped

into the old town of Franklin unheralded and unknown. He sat about the hotel and

gained the information he needed, then made himself known to the authorities and

proceeded at once to organize and equip a company of twenty Rangers. John B. Tays,

brother to the Episcopal minister of that district, was made lieutenant of the new

command, which was known as a detachment of Company C and stationed in the old

town of San Elizario, twenty-five miles southeast of El Paso.

Soon after this detachment of Rangers had been authorized, Judge Howard

appeared at San Elizario and sought protection with it. No sooner had it become known

that Judge Howard was back in Texas than the Ranger company was surrounded by a

band of armed Mexicans, two or three hundred in number, who demanded the body

of the jurist. Lieutenant Tays refused to surrender Howard, and the fighting began, and

was kept up at intervals for two or three days. Sergeant Mattimore, in passing

through the courtyard of the buildings in which the Rangers were quartered was shot

down and killed by Mexican snipers located on top of some adobe buildings within range

of the quarters. Then an American citizen, a Mr. Ellis, was killed near Company C’s camp.

After several days of desultory fighting the leaders of the mob, under flag of truce,

sought an interview with Lieutenant Tays. The lieutenant finally agreed to meet two of them,

and while the parley was in progress armed Mexicans approached the peace party one at a

time until forty or fifty had quietly surrounded Lieutenant Tays and put him at their

mercy. The mob then boldly demanded the surrender of the Rangers, Judge Howard, and


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two other Americans, Atkinson and McBride, friends of the judge, who had sought

protection with them.

There is no doubt that the Mexicans intimidated Lieutenant Tays after he was in

their hands, probably threatening him with death unless their demands were granted. The

lieutenant returned to the Ranger camp with the mob and said, “Boys, it is all settled. You

are to give up your arms and horses and you will be allowed to go free.”

The Rangers were furious at this surrender, but were powerless to help themselves, for

the mob had swarmed in upon them from all sides. Billy Marsh, one of the youngest men

in the, company, was so indignant that he cried out to his commander, “The only difference

between you and a skunk is that the skunk has a white streak down his back!”

Judge Howard, seeing the handwriting on the wall, began shaking hands and bidding

his Ranger friends goodbye. As soon as the Mexicans had gotten possession of the

Rangers arms, Judge Howard, McBride, and Atkinson were lined up against an adobe wall and

shot. Then some Mexicans placed a rope around Judge Howard’s neck and, mounted on

fast ponies, dragged the body about the streets of San Elizario, and finally threw it into a

shallow well. The Mexicans then scattered, most of them crossing the Rio Grande into

Mexico.

Lieutenant Tays at once resigned as commander of the Rangers, and Private Charles

Ludwick was made first sergeant and placed in charge of the company until the governor

of Texas could send a commissioned officer to take command of it. Had Lieutenant Tays held

out twenty-four hours longer, a thing which he could easily have done, he would have


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escaped the disgrace and mortification of surrendering himself and his company to a mob

of Mexicans, for within that time John Ford swept into the Rio Grande Valley with a

band of New Mexico cowboys to relieve the besieged Rangers. On learning the fate of

Howard, McBride, Atkinson, Ellis, and Sergeant Mattimore, the rescue party raided

up and down the valley from San Elizario to El Paso and killed several armed

Mexicans who were accused of being members of the mob that had murdered the

Americans. The present battalion of Texas Rangers was organized May 1, 1874, and in

all their half century of service this surrender of Lieutenant Tays is the only black mark

ever chalked up against them.

Afterward, when I arrived in El Paso with Lieutenant Baylor I had many talks

with Privates George Lloyd, Doc Shivers, Bill Rutherford, and Santiago Cooper—all

members of Tays’s company. Most of them believed Lieutenant Tays had a streak of yellow

in him, while a few thought he made a mistake in agreeing to an interview with the mob,

thereby allowing himself to be caught napping and forced to surrender.

Conditions in El Paso County were now so bad that Lieutenant Baylor was ordered into

the country to take command of the Ranger company. Before leaving to assume his

command, Lieutenant Baylor was called to Austin frontier from his home in San Antonio

and had a lengthy interview with Governor Roberts. Baylor was instructed to use all the

diplomacy possible to reconcile the two factions and settle the Salt Lake War peaceably. The

governor held that both sides to the controversy were more or less to blame; what had been


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done could not be undone, and the restoration of order was now the prime requisite, rather than a

punitive expedition against the members of the mob.

On July 28, 1879, Private Henry Maltimore and myself reached San Antonio from Austin

and presented our credentials to Lieutenant Baylor, who advised us that he had selected

August second as the day to begin his march from San Antonio to El Paso County. In his

camp on the San Antonio River in the southern part of the city the lieutenant had mustered

myself as sergeant, and Privates Henry Maltimore, Dick Head, Gus Small, Gus Kimpkau,

and George Harold.

Early on the morning of August 2, 1879, our tiny detachment left San Antonio on

our long journey. One wagon carried a heavy, old-fashioned square piano, and on top of this

was loaded the lieutenant’s household goods. At the rear of the wagon was a coop of

game chickens, four hens and a cock, for Lieutenant Baylor was fond of game chickens as

a table delicacy, though he never fought them. His family consisted of Mrs. Baylor, two

daughters—Helen, aged fourteen, and Mary, a child of four or five years—and

Miss Kate Sydnor, sister of Mrs. Baylor. The children and ladies traveled in a large hack

drawn by a pair of mules. Rations for men and horses were hauled in a two-mule wagon,

while the Rangers rode on horseback in advance of the hack and wagons. Two men

traveling to New Mexico in a two-wheeled cart asked permission to travel with us for protection.

Naturally, we made slow progress with this unique combination. As well as I can

remember, 1879 was a rather dry year, for not a drop of rain fell during this seven-

hundred-mile journey. When we passed Fort Clark, in Kinney County, and reached Devils


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River we were on the real frontier and liable to attack by Indians at any time. It was

necessary, therefore to keep a strong guard posted at all times.

Around our campfires at night Lieutenant Baylor entertained us with accounts of

early days on the frontier. He was born August 24, 1832, at old Fort Gibson in the

Cherokee nation, now the state of Oklahoma. His father, John Walker Baylor, was a

surgeon in the United States army. Lieutenant Baylor was a soldier by training and

by inheritance. In 1879 he was in his forty-seventh year and stood six feet two inches tall,

a perfect specimen of a hardy frontiersman. He was highly educated, wrote much for

papers and magazines, was a fluent speaker, and a very interesting talker and storyteller. He was

less reserved than any other captain under whom I ever served. He had taken part in many Indian

fights on the frontier of Texas, and his descriptions of some of his experiences were thrilling.

Lieutenant Baylor was a high-minded Christian gentleman and had been a member of the

Episcopal Church from childhood. In all the months I served with him I never heard him utter an

oath or tell a smutty yarn. He neither drank whiskey nor used tobacco. Had he written a history

of his operations on the frontier and a biography of himself it would have been one of the

strangest and most interesting books ever written.

I have not the power of language to describe Lieutenant Baylor’s bravery, because he

was as brave as it is possible for man to be. He thought everyone else should be the same,

and did not see how a white man could be a coward. He was as tenderhearted as a child and

would listen to any tale of woe. He frequently took men into the service and stood good

for their equipment, and often he had to pay the bill out of his own pocket. All men


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looked alike to him, and he would enlist anyone when there was a vacancy in the

company. The result was that some of the worst San Simon Valley rustlers got into the

command and gave us no end of trouble, nearly causing one or two killings in our camp.

Baylor cared nothing for discipline in the company. A scout of ten or fifteen men

would sometimes be strung out a mile or more on the march. To one who had commanded a

regiment during the Civil War a detachment of Texas Rangers, doubtless, looked small

and insignificant, so he let his men have pretty much their own way. To a man like myself,

who had been schooled under such captains as Major Jones, Captain Coldwell, Captain

Roberts, and Lieutenant Reynolds, commanders who were always careful of the

disposition and conduct of their men, this method of Baylor’s seemed suicidal. It seemed

inevitable that we would some time be taken by surprise and shot to pieces.

Another peculiarity of this wonderful man was his indifference to time. He would strike

an Indian trail, take his time, and follow it to the jumping-off place. He would say.

“There is no use to hurry, boys. We will catch them after a while.” For instance, the stage

driver and passenger killed in Quitman Canyon in January 1880 had been dead two weeks

before the lieutenant returned from a scout out in the Guadalupe Mountains. He at once

directed me to make a detail of all except three men in camp, issue ten days rations, and have

the men ready to move early next morning. An orderly or first sergeant is hardly ever

called upon to scout unless he so desires, but the lieutenant said: “You had better come

along, Sergeant. You may get another chance to kill an Indian.” It seemed

unreasonable to think he could start two weeks behind a bunch of Indians and


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follow up and annihilate the whole band, but he did. Give Comanches or Kiowas two

weeks start and they would have been in Canada, but the Apaches were slow, and a

different proposition with which to deal.

Baylor was one of the best shots with firearms I ever saw. He killed more game than

almost the entire company put together. When we first went out to El Paso he used a

Winchester rifle, but after the first Indian fight he concluded it was too light and

discarded it for a .45-70 Springfield sporting rifle. He always used what he called rest

sticks; that is, two sticks about three feet long the size of one’s little finger. These were

tied together about four or five inches from one end with a buckskin thong. In

shooting he would squat down, extend the sticks an arm’s length out in front of him

with the longer ends spread out tripod fashion on the ground. With his gun resting in the

fork he had a perfect rest and could make close shots at long range. He always carried

these sticks in his hand and used them on his horse as a quirt. In those days I used to

pride myself on my shooting with a Winchester, but I soon found that Lieutenant

Baylor had me skinned a mile when it came to killing game at long distance. I never could

use rest sticks, for I always forgot them and shot offhand.

I cannot close this description of Lieutenant Baylor without mentioning his excellent

wife, who made the long, tedious journey from San Antonio to El Paso County with us. She

was Sallie Garland Sydnor, born February 11, 1842. Her father was a wholesale merchant

at Galveston, and at one time mayor of that city. Mrs. Baylor was a very refined woman,


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highly educated, and a skillful performer on the piano. Her bright, sunny disposition and kind

heart won her friends among the Rangers at once.

When we had passed Pecan Springs on Devils River there was not another cattle, sheep,

or goat ranch until we reached Fort Stockton, two hundred miles to the west. It was just

one vast uninhabited country. Today it is all fenced and thousands of fine cattle, sheep, and

goats roam the hills. The Old Spanish Trail traverses most of this section, and in traveling

over it today one will meet hundreds of people in high-powered automobiles where forty

years ago it was dangerous for a small party of well armed men to journey. While

ascending Devils River I learned that Lieutenant Baylor was not only a good hunter, but

a first class fisherman as well, for he kept the entire camp supplied with fine bass and perch,

some of the latter being as large as saucers. Forty miles west of Beaver Lake we reached

Howard’s Well, situated in Howard’s Draw, a tributary of the Pecos River. Here we saw the

ruins of a wagon train that bad been attacked by Indians a few months before. All the mules

had been captured, the teamsters killed, and the train of sixteen big wagons burned. Had the

same Indians encountered our little party of ten men, two women, and two children we would all

have been massacred.

Finally, we reached old Fort Lancaster, an abandoned government post, situated

on the east bank of Live Oak Creek, just above the point where this beautiful stream

empties into the Pecos. We camped here and rested under the shade of the big live oak

trees for several days. From this camp we turned north up the Pecos, one of the most

curious rivers in Texas. That time, before its waters were much used for irrigation in New


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Mexico, the Pecos ran bank full of muddy, brackish water almost the year round. Not

more than thirty or forty feet wide, it is the crookedest stream in the world, and

though only from three to ten feet deep, was so swift and treacherous that it was most

difficult to ford. However, it had one real virtue; it was the best stream in Texas for

both blue and yellow catfish that ranged in weight from five to forty pounds. We were

several days traveling up this river to the pontoon crossing and we feasted on fish.

At Pontoon Crossing on the Pecos we intercepted the overland mail route leading

from San Antonio to El Paso by way of Freder icksburg, For t Mason, Menard, Fort

McKavett, Fort Concho, Fort Stockton, and Fort Davis, thence west by Eagle Springs

through Quitman Canyon, where more tragedies and foul murders have been committed

by Indians than at any other point on the route. Ben Fricklin was the mail contractor.

The stage stands were built of adobe and on the same unchanging plan. On each side of

the entrance was a large room. The gateway opened into a passageway, which was roofed,

and extended from one room to the other. In the rear of the rooms was the corral, the

walls of which were six to eight feet high and two feet thick, also of sun dried brick. One

room was used for cooking and eating and the other for sleeping quarters and storage. The

stage company furnished the stage tender with supplies and he cooked for the passengers,

when there were such, charging them fifty cents per meal, which he was allowed to retain

for his compensation.

When the stage rolled into the station the tender swung open the gates and the

teams, small Spanish mules, dashed into the corral. The animals were gentle enough when


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once in the enclosure, but mean and as wild as deer when on the road. The stage company

would buy these little mules in lots of fifty to a hundred in Mexico and distribute them along

the route. The tiny animals were unbroken bronchos right off the range. They were tied

up, or tied down, as the case might be and harnessed by force. When they had been

hitched to the stagecoach or buckboard the gates to the corral were opened and the team

left on the run. The intelligent mules soon learned that all they had to do was to run from

one station to the next, and they could not be stopped between posts no matter what

happened. Whenever they saw a wagon or a man on horseback approaching along the road

they would shy around the stranger, and the harder the driver held them the faster they ran.

On our way out, our teams were pretty well fagged out, and often Lieutenant Baylor

would camp within a few yards of the road. The Spanish stage mules would see our camp and

go around us on the run, while their drivers would curse and call us all the vile names

they could lay their tongues to for camping in the road.

When we camped at a station it was amusing to me to watch the stage attendants

harness these wary little animals. The stage or buckboard was always turned round in

the corral and headed toward the next station, and the passengers seated themselves before the

mules were hitched. When all was ready and the team harnessed the driver gave the

word, the station keeper threw open the gates, and the stage was off on a dead run.

There should be a monument erected to the memory of those old stagedrivers

somewhere along this overland route, for they were certainly the bravest of the brave.

It took a man with lots of nerve and strength to be a stagedriver in the Indian days, and many


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of them were killed. The very last year the stage line was kept up (1880) several drivers

were killed between Fort Davis and El Paso. Several quit the stage company and joined

Lieutenant Baylor’s company, and all of them made excellent Rangers.

From Pontoon Crossing we turned due west and traveled the stage route the

remainder of the way to El Paso County. At Fort Stockton we secured supplies for

ourselves and feed for our horses, the first place at which rations could be secured since

leaving Fort Clark. Fort Stockton was a large military post and was quite lively,

especially at night, when the saloons and gambling halls were crowded with soldiers and

citizen contractors. At Leon Holes, ten miles west of Fort Stockton, we were delayed a

week because of Mrs. Baylor’s becoming suddenly ill. Passing through Wild Rose Pass and

up Limpia Canyon we suffered very much from the cold, though it was only the last of

August. Coming from a lower to a higher altitude we felt the change at night keenly. That

was the first cold weather I had experienced in the summer.

Finally, on September 12, 1879, we landed safe and sound in the old town of Ysleta,

El Paso County, after forty-two days of travel from San Antonio. Here we met nine men, the

remnant of Lieutenant Tays’s company of Rangers. The first few days after our arrival were

spent in securing quarters for Lieutenant Baylor’s family and in reorganizing the company.

Sergeant Ludwick was discharged at his own request, and I was made first sergeant, Tom

Swilling second sergeant, John Seaborn first corporal, and George Lloyd second corporal. The

company was now recruited up to its limit of twenty men. Before winter Lieutenant Baylor

bought a fine home and fifteen or twenty acres of land from a Mr. Blanchard. The Rangers were


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quartered comfortably in some adobe buildings with fine corrals near by and within easy

distance of the lieutenant’s residence. We were now ready for adventure on the border.

When we arrived at Ysleta the Salt Lake War had quieted down and order had

been restored. Although nearly a hundred Mexicans were indicted by the El Paso

County grand jury, no one was ever punished for the murder of Judge Howard and his

companions. In going over the papers of Sergeant Ludwick I found warrants for the

arrest of fifty or more of the mob members. Though most of the murderers had fled

to Mexico immediately after the killing of the Americans, many of them had returned to the

United States and their homes along the Rio Grande. I reported these warrants to

Lieutenant Baylor and informed him that with the assistance of a strong body of Rangers I could

probably capture most of the offenders in a swift raid down the valley. The lieutenant

declared that he had received instructions from Governor Roberts to exercise extreme care not

to precipitate more trouble over Howard’s death, and, above all things, not to incite a

race war between the Mexican offenders and the white people of the country. He decided,

therefore, that we had better not make any move at all in the now dead Salt Lake War.

Of course I never again mentioned the matter to him.

Though the Salt Lake War was over, new and adventurous action was in store for us,

and within less than a month after our arrival in Ysleta we had our first brush with the

Apaches, a tribe of Indians I had never before met in battle.


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CHAPTER XII

OUR FIRST FIGHT W I T H A P A C H E S

On October 5, 1879, at midnight, Pablo Mejia b r o u g h t L i e u t e n a n t B a y l o r a

n o t e f r o m C a p ta in Gregor io Garc ia o f San E l iza r io , s t a t ing that a band of

Apaches had charged a camp of five Mexicans who were engaged in cutting hay for the

stage company fourteen miles north of La Quadra stage station and had killed them. As first

sergeant I was ordered to make a detail of ten men and issue them five days rations. I

detailed Second Sergeant Tom Swilling, Privates Gus Small, George Lloyd, John Thomas,

George Harold, Doc Shivers, Richard Head, Bill Rutherford, and Juan Garcia for the

scout, and myself made the tenth man. It required an hour to arouse the men, issue the rations

and ammunition, and pack the two mules, so it was one o’clock in the morning when we finally

left Ysleta.

By daylight we reached Hawkins Station, near where Fabin’s Station now is. Here we

were told we would find the survivor of the terrible massacre. Riding up to the door of the

stage house, we had to thump some time before we had evidence that anyone was alive

on the premises. Finally, the door was opened very cautiously about an inch and a Mexican

peeped out. Lieutenant Baylor asked him if he had been one of the grameros, or hay cutters.

“Si, senor,” replied the sleepy Mexican.

Asked for an account of the massacre, the native said it was nearly dark when the

Indians, numbering from twenty-five to fifty, charged the camp uttering such horrible yells

that everyone took to his heels and was soon in the chaparral. The speaker saw his


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pobrecito papa (poor papa) running, with the Indians about to lance him, and knew that

he and the remainder of the party were killed. Only he himself escaped. As he

mentioned the tragic death of his beloved parent the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Lieutenant Baylor comforted the weeper as best he could and asked him if he would not

guide the Rangers to the raided camp; he declined with thanks, saying he must stay

to help the station keeper take care of the stage mules, but he directed us to the ranch

where some of the dead men’s families lived and where a guide could be obtained.

When we arrived at the ranch below Hawkins Station it was sunrise and we halted

for breakfast after a night ride of forty miles. The people at the ranch were very uneasy

when we rode up, but were rejoiced when they realized that we were Rangers. On learning

our mission they showed us every attention. Among the first to come out to us was an

old Mexican who had been in the hay camp when it was attacked. He gave a lurid

account of the onset . His son had been one of the grameros, and when he

mentioned him the tears began to flow.

“Ah, hijo de mi cara, Juan. I shall never see him again,” he lamented. “All were

killed and I alone escaped !”

Lieutenant Baylor then explained to the weeping father that his son was very

much alive and that we had seen him that very night bewailing the death of the father he

thought killed. It now developed that all the dead men were alive. When the camp was

attacked all the Mexicans had scattered, and the Apaches had been too busy looting the stores to


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follow the fugitives. Moreover, those ranchers would fight and the Indians did not care to

follow them into the brush.

A bright young Mexican went with us to the hay camp, which was about six miles toward

Comales, where Don Juan Armendaris now has a cow ranch. The Apaches had

made a mess of things in camp sure enough. They had broken all the cups and plates,

poured salt into the sugar, this combination into the flour and beans, and the conglomeration

of the whole upon the ground, as the sacks were all they wanted. They had smashed

the coffee pot, the frying pan, the skillet, and the water barrels with an ax. Then,

taking all the blankets, they had started eastward as though they intended to go to the

Sierra Prieta, but after going a mile the trail turned south. We found the redskins had come

from the north by way of Las Cornudas and were probably from Fort Stanton, New

Mexico, on a raid into Mexico. They were in dry country and making for the Rio Grande,

fourteen miles to the south. When they discovered the hay camp on their route they charged it

and fired on the hay cutters. The Mexicans scattered and made their escape in the darkness,

each think i n g h i m self the sole survivor and so reporting on reaching his home, though as a

matter of fact not a single life was lost.

Our guide went back to give the alarm to the ranches below and we followed the

trail down the mesa until opposite the Mexican town of Guadalupe. There we crossed the

overland stage route near the present Rio Grande station and found our guide waiting

for us. He had discovered the trail, and fearing the Indians might ambush the road below, he had

awaited our arrival. The trail made straight for the Rio Grande, crossing about one mile


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west of Guadalupe. From the pony and mule tracks Lieutenant Baylor judged there were

fifteen to twenty Indians in the band. We had some trouble following the trail after we

got to the river bottom, where loose horses and cattle ran, but a few of us dismounted

and worked the trail out, crossed the river, and struck camp for dinner.

Lieutenant Baylor sent Pablo Mejia into town to inform the president of

Guadalupe that we had followed a fresh Apache trail to the Rio Grande going south into

Mexico, and to ask permission to follow the Indians into his country. The scout soon

returned and reported that the president was not only pleased that we had pursued

the redskins, but would willingly join us himself with all the men he could muster.

Just after we crossed the river we came across a Mexican herder with a flock of goats. As soon

as he heard we were trailing the Apaches he began yelling at the top of his voice and

soon had the goats on the jump for town, though the Indians had passed the night

before. We were quickly in the saddle again, and as we rode into the pueblo we were

kindly received by the people. We found a mare the Apaches had killed just on the

edge of town and from which they had taken some of the choice steaks.

After leaving Guadalupe the trail went south, following closely the stage road

from Juarez to Chihuahua. Not long after leaving town we met a courier coming to

Guadalupe from Don Ramon Arranda’s ranch, San Marcos de Cantarica, twenty-one miles

distant, who informed us that the Apaches had killed a herder on that ranch and had taken four

horses and sixteen mules belonging to the stage company. We hurried onward and reached


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Cantarica at sunset, having traveled seventy-eight miles since one o’clock that

morning. Both men and horses were rather tired.

All was confusion at the ranch. The Mexican herder had been shrouded and laid out

with a cross at his head and several little lighted candles near the body. Many women were

sitting around the room with black shawls pulled up over their heads. The Apaches,

numbering sixteen well-armed and well-mounted warriors, had slain their victim and

captured the stock near the ranch about noon. Mexican volunteers from Guadalupe and

San Ignacio began to ride in until our combined force numbered twenty-five or twenty-six men.

Everyone was excited at the thought of a brush with the redskins responsible for the

murder.

Accompanied by our volunteer allies we left the ranch at daylight next morning and

picked up the trail at once. It led off south along the base of the Armagora or Sierra

Bentano Mountains. As the Mexicans were familiar with the country they took the

lead and followed the trail rapidly. About eleven o’clock the trailers halted at the mouth of

the Canyon del Marranos, an ugly black hole cut in the mountains, looking grim and defiant

enough without the aid of Apache warriors. When we had joined the Mexicans—we

were traveling some half a mile behind them—Lieutenant Baylor and Captain Garcia held

a short conference. The lieutenant turned to me and said that Captain Garcia declared the

Indians were in the canyon among the rocks, and ordered me to detail two men to

guard our horses while we scaled the mountain on foot and investigated it. I could not


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bring myself to believe that a band of Indians that had killed a man and driven off all the

stage stock the day before had gone only thirty miles and was now lying in wait for us.

“You don’t know the Apaches,” Lieutenant Baylor declared, when I voiced my

thoughts. “They are very different from the plains Indians, the kind you have been used

to following. These Apaches delight to get into the rocks and lay for their enemies.”

At the conference the Mexicans suggested that Lieutenant Baylor should take nine of

his men and ten of their volunteers and follow the trail up the canyon, but the lieutenant

declared that this would never do, as the Apaches had no doubt anticipated such a move

and hidden themselves in the cliffs where they could kill their attackers without exposing

themselves in the least. He proposed scaling the mountains and following them down on

top of the ridge in the Indians rear, and this was the strategy finally adopted.

The Mexicans dismounted and started up the mountainside about one hundred yards

to our left. Lieutenant Baylor and his eight Rangers marched straight forward from our

horses and began the ascent. As we went along, the lieutenant pulled some bunch grass and

stuck it all around under his hatband so his head would look like a clump of grass and

conceal his head and body if he should have to flatten himself on the ground. He

counseled us to follow his example. I had taken some Mexican cheese out of my saddle

pockets and was eating it as we marched carelessly up the mountain. Honestly, I did

not believe there was an Indian within a hundred miles of us, but it was not long

before I changed my mind. Suddenly there came a loud report of a gun and then another. I

looked up to where the Mexicans had taken position behind a ledge of rocks and saw where


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a bullet had struck the stones a foot above their heads. I did not want any more

cheese. I threw down what I had in my hand and spat out what I had in my mouth.

The Apache warriors, high in the cliffs above us, then turned their attention to our

little band of Rangers and fired twenty-five or thirty shots right into our midst. One of

these big caliber bullets whizzed so close to my head that it made a noise like a wild duck

flying down stream at the rate of fifty to sixty miles an hour. Lieutenant Baylor ordered us

to charge at once.

In running up the mountain I was somewhat in advance of the boys. We came to

a rock ledge three or four feet high. I quickly scaled this, but before I could straighten up an

Indian rose from behind a rock about fifteen to twenty yards ahead and fired pointblank at

me. The bullet struck a small soap weed three feet in front of me and knocked the leaves

into my mouth and face. I felt as if I had been hit, but it was leaves and not blood that I

wiped out of my mouth with my left hand. I turned my head and called to the boys to

look out, but the warning was unnecessary—they had already taken shelter under the ledge of

rock.

Just as I turned my head a second shot from the Apache carried away the entire

front part of my hat brim. I saw the warrior throw another cartridge into his gun and

brought my Winchester quickly to bear upon him. When he saw that I was about to

shoot he shifted his position and turned sideways to me. We both fired at the same instant.

My bullet hit the redskin just above his hip and, passing straight through his body, broke

the small of his back and killed him almost instantly. He was a big man, probably six feet


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tall, with his face painted in red and blue paint. He used an old octagon-barrel Winchester rifle

and he had with him an old shirtsleeve, tied at one end, in which were two hundred and

fifty Winchester cartridges.

Some Indians fifty yards up the mountain now began to shell our position, so I took

shelter behind the ledge of rock. Fifteen or twenty feet to our left and a little higher

up the mountain, Lieutenant Baylor was sheltered behind some boulders. He raised his

head slightly above his parapet for a peep at the Indians and those keen-sighted warriors saw

him; a well-directed shot cut part of the grass out of his hat. Had the bullet been six

inches lower it would have struck him full in the face.

“Darn that old Indian,” exclaimed Baylor, ducking his head. “If I had a shotgun I

would run up and jump right on top of him.”

The lieutenant was mad now, and ordered a charge. The boys hesitated, and George

Harold, an old scout, said, “Lieutenant, if we leave this shelter and start up the mountain the

Indians hidden behind those rocks seventy-five yards above will kill us all.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right; they would be hard to dislodge,” replied Baylor.

The Apaches evidently had plenty of ammunition, for they kept up a desultory fire

all day. Seeing we were not going to fall into their trap, they turned their attention to

our horses. Although the animals were four or five hundred yards from the foot of the

mountain they killed Sergeant Swilling’s horse, the bullet passing entirely through the body just

behind the shoulders. -When it staggered and tumbled over, Swilling began to mourn, for

he had the horror of walking all western men have. John Thomas, however, got the laugh on


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him by saying, “Sergeant, you had better wait and see if you are going back to camp.” We

could see the Indians bullets knocking up dust all around the horses and the guard replying

to the fire. Lieutenant Baylor now sent a man to the guard with an order to move the

horses out of range.

During the afternoon the Apaches moved up higher toward the crest of the mountain, and

in doing so one of the Indians exposed himself. The Mexicans to our left spotted him and

killed him with a well-directed shot. The warrior fell in open ground where he was literally

shot to pieces.

We had been without water all day, and when night came Lieutenant Baylor and

Captain Garcia decided it was useless to continue the fight any longer, so we withdrew toward

our horses. After reaching the animals we could still hear the Indians firing on our positions.

We might have captured their horses by a charge, but we would have had to go down the

side of the mountain and across a deep canyon where we would have been compelled to

pick our way slowly under a constant crossfire from the concealed riflemen, and neither

Baylor nor Garcia thought the horses worth the sacrifice required to capture them.

As the nearest water was thirty miles away and our men and horses were weary and

thirsty, we rode back to the ranch of our hospitable friend, Don Ramon Arranda, where

our horses were fed and we ourselves supplied with fresh milk and cheese. On our

return to Guadalupe we were most kindly entertained by Mr. Maximo Arranda, a

customhouse officer at San Elizario, and brother to Don Ramon. We reached our

headquarters at Ysleta after being out five days and traveling two hundred and twenty-two


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miles, sustaining no other damage than a few bruises from scaling the mountain and the loss

of Sergeant Swilling’s horse. This first brush with Apaches, however, was but a

prelude to other expeditions after this tribe, and we were soon hot on the trail of Victorio,

the Apache Napoleon.


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CHAPTER XIII

SCOUTING IN MEXICO

Abou t a mon th a f t e r ou r f i r s t b rush wi th Apa ches during November 1879,

Chief Victorio quit the Mescalero Reservation and with a party of one hundred and

twenty-five warriors and a hundred women and children traveled south into Mexico

on a raid. This old chief was probably the best general ever produced by the Apache tribe. He

was a far better captain than old Geronimo ever was, and capable of commanding a

much larger force of men. His second in command was Nana, also a very able officer.

Victorio knew every foot of the country and just where to find wood, water,

grass, and abundance of game, so he took his time, and coming from New Mexico

down into the state of Chihuahua, stopped first at the Santa Maria. The country about

this stream is very mountainous, especially to the south, and here he could find refuge

in case of an attack from Mexican soldiers. Of this, however, there was not much

danger at that time, for the country was thinly settled, farming and stock raising being

confined to the neighborhood of the small towns. Gradually Chief Victorio moved down

into the Candelaria Mountains, approaching them from the northwest. Here he could get

fresh range for his large band of horses and be near the settlement of San Jose, owned by

Don Mariano Saminiego. Here, also, he could watch the public road between Chihuahua

and El Paso del Norte, the present Juarez.

A sad and most heartrending tragedy resulted from this move. Victorio was camped

at the large tanks on the north side and almost on top of the Candelaria Mountains, where


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he had fine range for his stock and plenty of game and wood. From these almost inaccessible

peaks he could see for twenty or thirty miles in every direction and watch every move of

travelers or hostile forces. The old chief now sent a small band of Indians, some six or

seven in number, on a raid against the little settlement of San Jose. Here the Indians stole

a bunch of Mexican ponies and hurried back to their camp. The townsmen discovered the

loss of their ponies, and on examining the trail, found there was only a small band of

Indians in the raiding party. A company of the principal citizens of San Jose, under the

command of Don Jose Rodriguez, and augmented by volunteers from the little town

of Carbajal, set out to locate the Indians and recover the stolen horses. The little band of

men, fifteen in number, went to the northern side of the mountains and struck the trail of

Victorio’s band on an old beaten route used by the Indians, which passed from the Santa

Maria River to the Candelaria Mountains. This road wound between two rocky peaks

and then down the side of the hills to the plain between them and the Candelarias, ending at

last at the big tank.

From his position on the tall peaks Victorio had seen the little body of Mexicans long

before they struck his trail and, knowing they would never come upon the Candelarias

after seeing the size of his trail, he sent forty or fifty of his warriors to form an ambuscade

where the trail crosses the crest between the two peaks. He must have been with the

braves himself, for the thing was skillfully planned and executed. On the north side of

the trail there were only a few boulders, but on the south side the bills were very broken, rising

in rough tiers of stones. The Apaches hid in these rocks and awaited their victims. On


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November seventh, the Mexicans entered the narrow defile and as soon as they were

between the two parties of Indians concealed on each side of the pass the Apaches on the

north side of the trail fired a volley at them. The Mexicans thereupon made for the

rocks on the south side, when the redskins in the cliffs above opened fire on them.

Caught in this death trap, the entire force was massacred. When I walked over the

ground some time afterward I saw where one Mexican had got into a crevice from which he

could shoot anyone coming at him from the east or west. He was hidden also from the

Indians in the cliffs above him, but his legs were exposed to the warriors on the north side

and they had literally shot them off up to his knees. I also found seven dead Mexicans

in a small gulley, and on a little peak above them I discovered the lair of one old Indian

who had fired twenty-seven shots at the tiny group until he had killed them all, for I found that

number of .45-70 cartridge shells in one pile. Practically all the horses of the Mexicans

were killed. Some of the animals had been tied to Spanish dagger plants and when

shot ran the length of their rope before falling. Some of the bodies rolled down the deep

canyon until they reached the bottom of what we called the Canaoa de la Muerte (Canyon

of Death), and the Indians removed none of the saddles or ropes from the dead horses.

When the company of Mexicans failed to return there was great sorrow and alarm

in the little town of Carbajal. As it was supposed that only a small band of Apaches bent on horse

stealing was in the Candelarias, another small band of fourteen men volunteered to go and see

what had become of their friends and kindred. Don Jose Mario Rodriguez was

appointed commander, and the little party took the trail of their comrades with sad


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forebodings. Old Victorio, from his watchtowers in the Candelarias, saw this rescue

party and prepared for its destruction. The signs indicated that the second party had

walked into the same death trap as the first, but its members had scattered more in

fighting and many of them were killed on the southern slope of the hills. Two had

attempted to escape on horseback, but were followed and killed. I found one of these

unfortunates in an open plain some six hundred yards from the hills. He had been

surrounded, and, seeing escape was impossible, had dismounted, tied his horse to a

Spanish dagger plant, and put up a good fight. I found thirty or forty cartridge shells near

where he had fallen. His pony had been killed and the dagger plant shot to pieces. The

Apaches had cut off his right hand and had carried away his gun, six-shooter, saddle, and

bridle.

When neither party came back, then, indeed, was there sorrow in the town of

Carbajal, for twenty-nine of her principal citizens had left never to return. Wives, mothers, and

sweethearts mourned the loss of their dear ones. A runner was sent to El Paso del Norte

and the citizens began to organize a punitive expedition at once, calling on Saragosa, Tres

Jacales, Guadalupe, and San Ignacio for their quotas. These towns responded quickly and soon a

hundred Mexicans were ready to take the field. A note was sent to Lieutenant Baylor at Ysleta

requesting the Rangers to go with the command. Baylor readily agreed to accompany the

Mexicans, for he knew it was only a question of time before old Victorio would again be

murdering and robbing on our side of the Rio Grande. A detachment of Company C had been in

one Apache fight in Mexico and the Mexicans had a very kindly feeling for us.


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Lieutenant Baylor’s detachment of ten Rangers crossed the Rio Grande at Saragosa, a

little town opposite Ysleta, and joined the Mexicans under Senor Ramos. We marched to

the ranch of Don Ynocente Ochoa until the volunteers from the other towns came to

Salamayuca Springs. When they arrived the Rangers moved down and our combined

command amounted to one hundred and ten men.

After organizing their force the Mexicans sent Senor Ramos to inform Lieutenant

Baylor that on account of his experience as a soldier, and as a compliment to the Rangers,

they had selected him to command the entire party. The lieutenant thanked the

messenger, but replied that as the campaign was on Mexican soil to rescue or bury

Mexicans, it would be more proper to appoint one of their own men commander, and that

he himself would cheerfully serve under any leader so chosen. Senor Ramos returned

shortly and notified Lieutenant Baylor that the Mexicans had selected Don Francisco

Escajeda of Guadalupe as commander-in-chief and Lieutenant Baylor as second in

command.

This solution of the leadership problem pleased us, as there was an element among the

Mexican party which might have caused friction. Old Chico Barelo, the pueblo

cacique and principal commander of the mob that had killed Judge Howard, Ellis,

Atkinson, and McBride at San Elizario, was with the expedition, and we had at our

Ysleta headquarters warrants for the arrest of himself and many others; but we gave the old

fellow to understand we were now fighting a common enemy and should act in harmony

together. We did this more willingly because we had learned that after killing Judge Howard


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and the others the mob had wanted to murder all the Rangers barricaded in an old adobe

house, but had been dissuaded from this purpose by old Chico, who had declared the

Rangers could only be killed after he had first been slain.

Leaving one wagon at the Ochoa ranch and taking three days cooked rations and

more in case of a siege, we went out in the night to avoid Victorio’s spies. Don Francisco

Escajeda and Lieutenant Baylor were at the head of the column. I followed with eight

Rangers in Indian file, each Ranger with a Mexican by his side, showing they looked on

us as volunteers in the Mexican service. We rode out along the hard sand road beyond

Salamayuca and sent spies ahead to locate the Apaches if possible. Before we reached the

Candelarias we halted behind some mountains to await their report, but they could learn

nothing certain. It was a bitterly cold night and a few of us made fires in the deep

arroyos. We moved on toward the mountains north of the Candelarias and reached

them early next morning to find a large fresh trail about two days old going in the

direction of Lake Santa Maria, but, for fear of some stratagem, we divided our men. One

party took the crest south of the trail where the massacre took place, while the other

went to the right.

It was soon evident that the entire Apache band had left, and that nothing remained for us

but the sad duty of collecting the bodies of the dead Mexicans for burial. The second, or

rescue party, had found the bodies of their kinsmen killed in the first ambuscade and had

collected them and put them into a big crevice in the rocks. When they began to cover the


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corpses with loose stones the Indians, who had been watching them all the while, as a cat plays

with a mouse before killing it, opened fire on the burial party and killed them to the last man.

The saddest scene I ever witnessed was that presented as we gathered the bodies of the

murdered men. At each fresh discovery of a loved friend, brother, or father, a wail of

sorrow went up, and I doubt if there was a dry eye either of Mexican or Texan in the whole

command.

While the immediate relatives were hunting for those who had scattered in trying to

escape, we moved south to the main tank in the Candelarias. The ascent was up a winding

path on the steep mountainside to the bench where the tank, one of the largest in the

West, was situated. The water coming down from a height, and big boulders, falling

into the tank, had cut a deep hole in the solid rock in which the water was retained.

Although Victorio’s band of three hundred animals and two hundred or more Indians

and our command had been using the water it could scarcely be missed.

We sent scouts to the left and right to make sure no trap was being set for us, for the

cunning old chief, after sending his women and children off, could have hidden his warriors

in the rough cliff which towered high above the tank of water and slaughtered all those below.

We remained all day and night at this place. It was the most picturesque spot I had ever seen.

We Rangers rambled all over the Indian camp and found many of the Mexican saddles

hidden in the cliffs, and several hats, each with bullet holes in it. We also discovered

two Winchester rifles that had been hit in the fight and abandoned as useless. I saw a

hundred or more old rawhide shoes that had been used to cover the ponies feet, and dozens


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of worn out moccasins. The Apaches had killed and eaten more than seventy-five head of

horses and mules in this camp.

I followed a plain, well beaten footpath to the topmost peak of the Candelaria or

candle mountain, so called from the candle-like projection of rocks that shoot skyward from

its top. The Candelaria is in an open plain fifty miles south of El Paso, Texas, and from

its top affords one of the grandest views in northern Mexico. To the south one could

see San Jose and Carbajal, to the north the mountains at El Paso del Norte; to the west

the mountains near Santa Maria River and Lake Guzman were in plain view, while to

the east the Sierra Bentanos loomed up, apparently only a few miles away. On this peak old

Victorio kept spies constantly on the lookout, and it would have been impossible for a

party of men to have approached without being seen by these keen-eyed watchers.

All the bodies having been recovered, they were buried in a crevice of the

mountain where they had been killed. All were in a good state of preservation owing to the

pure cold air of the mountains. It is a strange fact, but one beyond question, that no wild

animal or bird of prey will touch the body of a Mexican. These corpses had lain on the

ground nearly two weeks and were untouched. If they had been the bodies of Indians,

negroes, or Americans the coyotes, buzzards, and crows would have attacked them the first

day and night.

Nothing of interest occurred on our return trip. The Rangers, as usual, ate their three

days rations at the first camp they made and got out of bread, but our Mexican allies

divided with us. Don Ynocente Ochoa’s major-domo or ranch boss gave us all the fresh beef


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we could eat and a supply of came seco (dried beef) to take with us on the campaign. Quite a

company had come out from Carrizal to see us and we returned sadly to the widows of

the brave men who fell in this, probably the most wholesale slaughter ever made by

Victorio’s band. The citizens of Galena were nearly as unfortunate, but it was old Hu and

Geronimo who massacred them. All the Saragosa men made for their church to offer up

thanks for a safe return. Men, women, and children uttered their “Gracias, senores,” as

the Rangers rode through their town. We arrived safely in our adobe quarters at Ysleta and

appreciated them after sleeping out-of-doors.


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CHAPTER XIV

TREACHEROUS BRAVES, A FAITHFUL D O G , A N D A M U R D E R

During the latter part of January 1880, two m i n i n g e n g i n e e r s n a m e d A n d r e w s

a n d Wiswall f r o m D e n v e r , C o l o r a d o , a p p e a r e d a t t h e Ranger camp in Ysleta.

They had a new ambulance pulled by two good horses, and led a fine saddle pony. They

were well fitted out for camping and had the finest big black shepherd dog I had ever seen.

Andrews used a Springfield while Wiswall carried a Sharps sporting rifle, and besides

these guns they had shotguns and six-shooters. These miners wanted to buy one hundred pack

burros and, not finding what they sought in the Rio Grande Valley, decided to go over

to the upper Pecos Valley near Eddy or Roswell, New Mexico, for pack animals.

They consulted Lieutenant Baylor about the best route they should follow. He advised them

to travel down the overland stage route to Fort Davis, thence by Toyah Creek and on up the

Pecos, but the engineers thought this too much out of their way and concluded to travel by

the old abandoned Butterfield stage route, which leads by Hueco Tanks, Alamo Springs,

Cornudas Mountain, Crow Flat, and Guadalupe Mountain, and thence to the Pecos

River. Lieutenant Baylor warned the men that this was a very dangerous route, without a

living white man from Ysleta to the Pecos River, more than one hundred and fifty miles

distant, and through an Indian country all the way.

Nevertheless, Andrews and Wiswall selected this latter route, and on the third day

out from our camp reached the old abandoned stage station at Crow Flat about noon. This

was in an open country and from it one could see for miles in every direction. A cold


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north wind was blowing, so, for protection, the two men drove inside the old station walls,

unhitched and hobbled their horses and pony, and were soon busily baking bread, frying

bacon, and boiling coffee, not dreaming there was an Indian in the country, though

they had been warned to look out for them. Like all men traveling in that country the two

miners had appetites like coyotes and became deeply absorbed in stowing away rations.

Unnoticed, the horses had grazed off some three or four hundred yards from the station and the

two men were suddenly startled by a yelling and the trampling of horses feet. Looking

up, they saw ten or twelve Indians driving off their horses.

Seizing their guns, the two white men started after the thieves at top speed. Both

being western men and good shots, they hoped, by opening on the redskins with their long-

range guns, to get close enough to prevent them from taking the hobbles off the horses.

But the animals made about as good time as if they had been foot loose. This fact was well

known to the Rangers, who hobbled and side-lined also, and even then their horses, when

stampeded, would run as fast as the guards could run on foot. The Apaches can be taught

nothing about horse stealing—they are already past masters at the art. While some of the

Indians halted and fought Andrews and Wiswall, the others ran the horses off and got away with

them. The two miners returned to camp feeling very blue indeed.

A council of war was held and they were undetermined what course to pursue. To

walk back one hundred miles to El Paso and pack grub, blankets, and water was no

picnic; on the other hand, it was probably seventy-five miles to the Pecos. They finally

decided to take the shortest way to assistance, which proved the traditional longest


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way. They determined to stay within the friendly adobe of the old stage stand until night.

To keep up appearances they rigged up two dummy sentinels and put them on guard.

They had no fear of an attack at night, especially as they had a dog to keep watch.

They left the station at dark. Shep, the dog, wanted to go with them, but the men put

a sack of corn and a side of bacon under the ambulance and made him understand he was to

guard it. They then set out and followed the old stage route along a horrible road of

deep sand. At daybreak they were near the point of the Guadalupe Peak, and having

traveled on foot about twenty-five miles they were pretty well worn out.

The stage road here turns to the right and gradually winds around the mountain to get on

the mesa land. It makes quite a circuit before getting to the next water, Pine Springs, but there is

an old Indian trail that leads up the canyon and straight through. As Andrews and

Wiswall were afoot and taking all the short cuts, they took this trail. It was late in the

day when, in a sudden bend of the trail, they came in full view of an entire village of

Indians coming toward them. The redskins were only two or three hundred yards off and

discovered the white men at once.

Under such circumstances the two pedestrians had to think quickly and act at once.

They could not hope to escape by running, for most of the Indians were mounted.

Fortunately, to the south of the trail there was a sharp sugar-loaf peak, and for this

Andrews and Wiswall made with all speed. Reaching the summit, they hastily threw up a

breastwork of loose rocks and as soon as the Indians came in sight they opened fire on them.

The redskins returned the fire, but soon discovered they were wasting ammunition


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and ceased firing. The besieged, suspicious of some stratagem, kept a sharp lookout, and

soon discovered the Indians were crawling upward to the barricade, pushing boulders

before them to shelter their bodies. The two men decided to keep perfectly still, one on

each side, and watch for a chance to kill a savage.

The watcher on the west side, where the fading light still enabled him to see, saw a

mop of black hair rise cautiously over an advancing rock. He fired at once. The head

disappeared and the boulder went thundering down the hill with the two white men

running over the wounded warrior. As good luck would have it most of the attackers were

on the east side, having taken it for granted that the men would try to escape in that

direction. Before the astonished Apaches could understand just what was occurring, the

men, running like old black-tailed bucks, were out of hearing, while the kindly night

spread her dark mantle over them. Being good woodsmen, they had no trouble in

shaping their course to Crow Flat again.

Worn out and weary after traveling more than fifty miles on foot and with not a

wink of sleep for thirty-six hours, they made the old stage stand and found their dummy

sentinels still on guard, with the faithful shepherd dog at his post. He was overjoyed at

the return of his masters. Here they were in a measure safe, for they had water and grub

and the walls of the stand, five feet or more high, would shelter them. Since no attempt had

been made to kill the dog or rob the ambulance, the miners were satisfied that the

Indians, after stealing their horses, had kept on their way to the Mescalero Agency,

near Tularosa. This stage station was on the highway of these murderous, thieving rascals,


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who were constantly raiding Texas and Chihuahua. In these raids they had made a

deep trail leading north from Crow Flat or Crow Springs, as some call it, toward the

Sacramento Mountains.

After the fugitives had rested they decided they would start after dark for

Ysleta. The fifty-mile walk over a rough country had pretty well worn out their shoes, so

they used gunnysacks to tie up their sore and bleeding feet. Again giving Shep his orders,

with heavy hearts they turned their faces to the Cornudas Mountains, with the next

stage station twenty-five miles distant and not one drop of water on the way. They were

so tired and footsore that they did not reach Cornudas until late the next day. Here

they hid in the rocks, among the shady nooks of which they found cold water and sweet

rest. After several days the two men dragged their weary bodies, more dead than alive, into

Ysleta and to the Ranger camp.

Lieutenant Baylor ordered me to take eight Rangers, and with two mules, proceed to

Crow Flat to bring in the ambulance Andrews and Wiswall had abandoned there. The

first day we made the Hueco Tanks. Hueco is Spanish for tanks, and in the early days

travelers spelled it Waco. Many wild adventures have occurred at these tanks—fights

between the Mexicans and the Apaches. During the gold excitement this was the main

immigrant route to California. Here, too, the overland stage route had a stand. The names of

Marcy, General Lee, and thousands of others could be seen written on the rocks. The

Indians themselves had drawn many rude pictures, one of which was quite artistic


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and depicted a huge rattlesnake on the rock under the cave near the stage stand on the

eastern side of Hueco.

Many times when scouting in the Sacramento and Guadalupe Mountains I have camped

for the night in the Huecos. Sometimes the water in the tanks had all been used up by the

travelers but there was always plenty of cool rainwater twenty-five feet above the

main ground tanks. Often I have watered my entire command by scaling the mountain

to these hidden tanks and, filling our boots and hats with water, poured it on the flat, roof-

like rocks so it would run down into the tanks below. The city of El Paso, I am told,

now has a fine graded road to these historic mountains, and many of its citizens enjoy

an outing there.

Our next halt was at the Alamos, across the beautiful plains, at that time covered

with antelope which could be seen scudding away with their swift change of color looking

like a flock of white birds. Here we found some Indian signs at the flat above the springs,

but it was at Cornudas that we again saw the old signs of the Apaches. This Cornudas is a

strange conglomeration of dark granite rocks shot high in the air in the midst of the

plains by some eruption of the earth in ages past. This was the favorite watering place

of the Tularosa Agency Indians on their raids into Texas and Mexico.

From Cornudas to Crow Flat is a long, monotonous tramp of twenty-five miles, and

we arrived in the night and were promptly challenged by the faithful sentinel, old Shep.

Although we were strangers, the dog seemed to recognize us as Americans and friends. He

went wild with joy, barking and rolling over and over. The faithful animal had been


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there alone for nearly fifteen days. The side of bacon had been eaten and the sack of

corn was getting very low. The Rangers were as much delighted as if they had

rescued a human being. The dog had worn the top of the wall of the old stage station

perfectly smooth while keeping off the sneaking coyotes. Tracks of the latter were thick all

around the place, but with the assistance of the dummy sentinels, Shep had held the

fort. We found everything just as the owners had left it.

As was my custom, I walked over the ground where the Apaches and Andrews and

Wiswall had had their scrap. Near an old dagger plant I found where an Indian had

taken shelter, or rather had tried to hide himself, and picked up a number of

Winchester .44 cartridge shells. We secured the ambulance and returned to camp

without incident, having traveled two hundred miles in a week. Mr. Andrews

presented Lieutenant Baylor with a beautiful Springfield rifle. I don’t know whether

Andrews or Wiswall is alive, but that Mexican shepherd dog is entitled to a

monument on which should be inscribed, FIDELITY.

In the spring of 1880 two brick masons, Morton and Brown, stopped at our quarters in

Ysleta on their way from Fort Craig, New Mexico, to San Antonio, Texas. They had

heard that some freight wagons at San Elizario would soon return to San Antonio,

and were anxious to travel back with them. These men spent two or three days in the

Ranger camp and seemed very nice chaps and pleasant talkers. One of them, Mr. Morton,

owned one of the finest pistols I ever saw. It had a pearl handle and was silver mounted. Our

boys tried to trade for it, but Morton would not part with the weapon.


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After the two men had been gone from our camp three or four days, word was

brought to Lieutenant Baylor that two men had been found dead near San Elizario. The

lieutenant sent me with a detail of three Rangers to investigate. At San Elizario we learned

that the bodies were at Collins’ sheep ranch, four miles from town. On arriving there we

found, to our surprise and horror, that the dead men were Morton and Brown, who had left our

camp hale and hearty just a few days before. It was surmised that they had camped

for the night at the sheep ranch and had been beaten to death with heavy mesquite

sticks. They had been dead two or three days and were stripped of their clothing, their bodies

being partly eaten by coyotes.

On repairing to his sheep ranch Mr. Collins had found the dead bodies of Morton

and Brown, his shepherds gone, and his flock scattered over the country. Mr. Collins

gave the herders names as Santiago Esquibel and Manuel Molina. After beating

out the brains of their unfortunate victims, the Mexicans had robbed the bodies and set out

for parts unknown.

As the murderers were on foot and had been gone three or four days, I found it

very difficult to get their trail, as loose stock grazed along the bosques and partially

obliterated it. As there were a number of settlements and several little pueblos along the

river, I knew if I did not follow the Mexicans tracks closely I could never tell where they

had gone, so I spent the remainder of the day trying to get the trail from camp. We were

compelled to follow it on foot, leading our horses. We would sometimes be an hour trailing a

mile.


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On the following day I was able to make only ten miles on the trail, but I had

discovered the general direction. I slept on the bank of the Rio Grande that night, and

next morning crossed into Mexico and found that the murderers were going down the

river in the direction of Guadalupe. I now quit the trail and hurried on to this little

Mexican town. Traveling around a short bend in the road I came suddenly into the main street

of Guadalupe, and almost the first man I saw standing on the street was a Mexican with

Morgan’s white-handled pistol strapped on him.

I left two of my men to watch the suspect and myself hurried to the office of the president

of Guadalupe, made known my mission and told him I had seen one of the supposed murderers

of Morton and Brown on the streets of his city, and asked that the suspect be arrested. The

official treated me very cordially and soon had some police officers go with me. They found the

two suspected Mexicans, arrested them, and placed them in the jail. The prisoners

admitted they were Collins’ sheepherders and said their names were Molina and Esquibel

but, of course, denied knowing anything about the death of Morton and Brown. All my

Rangers recognized the pistol taken from the Mexicans as the weapon owned by Mr.

Morton. The Mexican officers reported to the alcalde or town president that the

suspects had been arrested. The latter official then asked me if I had any papers for

them. I told him I had not, for at the time I left my camp at Ysleta we did not know

the nature of the murder or the names of the parties incriminated. I declared I was sure

the men arrested had committed the murder and that I would hurry back to Ysleta and


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have the proper papers issued for the prisoners extradition. The alcalde promised to hold the

suspects until the proper formalities could be complied with.

From Guadalupe to Ysleta is about fifty or sixty miles. I felt the importance of

the case, and while my men and I were footsore and weary, we rode all night long over a sandy

road and reached camp at nine o’clock the following morning. Lieutenant Baylor at once

appeared before the justice of the peace at Ysleta and filed a complaint of murder against

Manuel Molina and Santiago Esquibel, had warrants issued for their arrest, and himself

hurried to El Paso, crossed the river to El Paso del Norte and, presenting his warrants to the

authorities, asked that the murderers be held until application for their extradition could be

made.

Within a week we learned, much to our disgust, that the two murderers had been

liberated and told to vamoose. I doubt whether the warrants were ever sent to the

alcalde at Guadalupe. A more cruel murder than that of Morton and Brown was never

committed on the Rio Grande, yet the murderers went scot-free. This miscarriage of

justice rankled in my memory and subsequently it led me to take the law into my own hands

when dealing with another Mexican murderer.


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CHAPTER XV

VICTORIA BECOMES A GOOD INDIAN

A soon as the summer rains had begun in 1880 and g r e e n g r a s s a n d w a t e r w e r e

p l e n t i f u l , o l d V i c t o r i o a g a i n b e g a n h i s r a i d s . H e a p p e a r e d a t Lake

Guzman, Mexico, then traveled east to Boracho Pass, just south of the Rio Grande.

This old chief was then reported making for the Eagle Mountains in Texas. The

Mexican government communicated this information to General Grierson at Fort Davis,

Texas, and Lieutenant Baylor was asked to cooperate in the campaign to exterminate the

wily old Apache.

General Grierson, on receipt of this information, at once put his cavalry in motion for

Eagle Springs, and on August 2, 1880, Baylor left his camp at Ysleta with myself and thirteen

Rangers equipped for a two weeks campaign. On August fourth our little band reached old Fort

Quitman, eighty miles down the Rio Grande from El Paso, and Lieutenant Baylor

reported to General Grierson by telegraph. His message was interrupted, for the

Apaches had cut the wires between Bass Canyon and Van Horn’s Well, but the general

had previously ordered him by telegram to scout toward Eagle Springs until his

command should meet the United States cavalry. We were to keep a sharp lookout

for Indian trails, but we saw none until we reached Eighteen Mile Water Hole, where

General Grierson’s troops had had an engagement with Victorio. From here the Indians

went south and around Eagle Mountains, so we continued down the road beyond Bass

Canyon and found they had crossed the road, torn down the telegraph wire, carried off a long


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piece of it, and destroyed the insulators. They also dragged some of the telegraph poles

two or three miles and left them on their trail. The signs indicated they had from one

hundred and eighty to two hundred animals. After destroying the telegraph the raiders

finally moved north toward Carrizo Mountains.

At Van Horn, Lieutenant Baylor could learn nothing of General Grierson or his

movements. We thereupon took the general’s trail leading north and overtook him in

camp at Rat t lesnake Springs, about sixty-five miles distant. Here we joined Company K,

and Captain Nolan’s company, both of the Tenth Cavalry. The cavalry camped at

Carrizo Springs and our scouts found Victorio’s trail the next day leading southwest

toward the Apache Tanks. We left camp at dusk and rode all night and struck the

redskins trail next morning at the stage road where General Grierson had fought. The

Indians crossed the road, but afterward returned to it and continued toward old Fort

Quitman.

The overland stage company kept a station at this abandoned frontier post, situated on

the north bank of the Rio Grande, eighty or ninety miles east of El Paso, Texas. On August

9, 1880, Ed Walde, the stagedriver, started out on his drive with General Byrnes, a retired

army officer, occupying the rear seat of the coach. The stage, drawn by two fast running

little Spanish mules, passed down the valley and entered the canyon, a box like pass with

high mountains on either side—an ideal place for an Indian ambuscade. Walde had

driven partly through this pass when, at a short bend in the road, he came suddenly

upon old Victorio and his band of one hundred warriors. The Indian advance guard fired


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on the coach immediately, and at the first volley General Byrnes was fatally wounded, one

bullet striking him in the breast and a second passing through his thigh. Walde turned his

team as quickly as he could and made a lightning run back to the stage stand with the

general’s body hanging partly out of the stage. The Apaches followed the stage for

four or five miles, trying to get ahead of it, but the little mules made time and beat

them into the shelter of the station’s adobe walls.

It was a miracle that Walde, sitting on the front seat, escaped without a scratch and that

both of the mules were unharmed. At old Fort Quitman I examined the little canvas topped

stage and found it literally shot to pieces. I noticed where a bullet had glanced along the

white canvas, leaving a blue mark a foot long before it passed through the top. Three

of the spokes of the wheels were shot in two and there were fifteen or twenty bullet marks

on and through the stage. Lieutenant Baylor and his Rangers buried General Byrnes

near old Fort Quitman and fired a volley over his grave. Subsequently Walde joined

Lieutenant Baylor’s command and made an excellent Ranger. It was from him that I

obtained the particulars of the fight that resulted in the general’s death.

En route the Apaches raided Jesus Cota’s ranch, killed his herder, and drove off

one hundred and forty head of cattle. In crossing the river forty of the animals mired in the

quicksands. The heartless Indians thereupon pounced upon the unfortunate cattle

and cut chunks of flesh out of their living bodies. Many of the mutilated animals were still

alive when we found them. The redskins, with a freakish sense of humor, perpetrated a


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grim joke on the murdered herder. He was rendering some tallow when surprised and killed, so

the murderers rammed his head into the melted tallow to make him a greaser!

After the fight at Quitman, Victorio and his band crossed into Mexico and there

found temporary safety, as the United States troops were not permitted to enter that

country in pursuit of Indians, though negotiations to permit such pursuit were even then

pending between the two governments. Alone, we were no match for Victorio’s hundred braves,

so we returned to our camp.

Victorio, however, did not remain idle in Mexico. He made a raid on Don

Saminiego’s San Jose ranch and stole one hundred and seventeen horses and mules,

besides killing two Mexican herders. Don Ramon Arranda, captain of the Mexican

volunteers, invited the Rangers to Mexico to cooperate with him in exterminating the

Apaches, so, on September 17, 1880, Lieutenant Baylor with thirteen Rangers, myself included,

entered Mexico and marched to San Marcos de Cantarica, Don Arranda’s ranch. Here we

were joined by volunteers from the Mexican towns of Guadalupe, San Ignacio, Tres

Jacales, Paso del Norte, and from the Texan towns of Ysleta, Socorro, and San

Elizario, until our combined force numbered over a hundred men.

On the night of the nineteenth we crossed an Indian trail south of the Itancheria

Mountains, but could not tell the number of redskins in the party, as it was then dark and

the trail had been damaged by rain. The same night we saw Indian signal fires to the east of

the Arranda ranch. Next morning, with a detail of five Rangers and ten Mexican volunteers,

I scouted in the direction of the fires but did not have time to reach the sign, as I was ordered


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to take and hold the Rancheria Mountains before old Victorio and his band should reach

them.

At Lucero, the first stage stand, the Apaches were reported to be within a league

of Carrizal. We made a night march with our Rangers and seventy-three volunteers, but

found the Indians had left, and, as a heavy rain had put out the trail, we struck east

toward El Cobre Mountains. Here we again picked up the trail, and following it until

night, we found a few loose horses of Saminiego’s. The marauders now went west

toward some tanks and we returned to Candelaria, where Victorio’s entire band had

crossed the Chihuahua stage road. Thence we marched back to San Jose and went

into camp to await the arrival of General Joaquin Terrazas.

The Mexican general made his appearance on October third with two hundred

cavalry and one hundred infantry. This general, a member of a well-known family of

Chihuahua, was more than six feet in height, very dark, and an inveterate smoker of

cigarettes. He used four milk-white horses, riding one while his aides led three. His

cavalrymen, well armed with Remington pistols and carbines, were nicely uniformed and

mounted on dark colored animals of even size. The infantrymen were Indians from the

interior of Mexico. They wore rawhide sandals on their feet and were armed with

Remington muskets. Each soldier carried two cartridge belts, containing one hundred

rounds of ammunition. I was impressed with the small amount of baggage and rations

these infantrymen carried. On the march each man had a little canvas bag that held about a quart

of ground parched corn, sweetened with a little sugar and a tablespoonful of this mixture stirred


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in a pint cup of water made a good meal. Of course, when in cattle country plenty of beef was

furnished them, but when on the march they had only this little bag of corn. This lack of

baggage and rations enabled them to move quickly and promptly. The infantry had

no trouble at all in keeping up with the cavalry on the march, and in a rough country they

could move faster than the horsemen.

With General Terrazas’ three hundred soldiers and our hundred volunteers we

could bring to bear against Victorio about four hundred men. From San Jose the combined

command marched to Rebosadero Springs, twenty miles south of El Chaparro, on the

new Chihuahua stage road. There we rested two days and then marched forty miles to

Boracho Pass, where the Apaches had camped after killing General Byrnes and stealing

Jesus Cota’s stock. We crossed their trail twenty miles west of the pass and formed

our line of battle, as we expected to find them encamped at some tanks there. They did

not appear, so we camped at the pass to await supplies.

When the supply wagons arrived, General Terrazas sent an orderly to Lieutenant

Baylor and invited him to send his men to draw ten days rations. While I was standing in my

shirtsleeves near the wagon one of the Mexican soldiers stole from my belt a fine hunting-knife

which I had carried over ten thousand miles of frontier. I discovered the loss almost

immediately and reported it to Lieutenant Baylor, who, in turn, mentioned it to General

Terrazas. The general at once had his captains form their respective companies and

had every soldier in camp searched, but the knife was not found. The thief had probably

hidden it in the grass. The Mexican volunteers remained with General Terrazas until after


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the defeat of Victorio, and one of them told me afterward that he had seen a Mexican soldier

scalping Apaches with it. Just one year later an orderly of General Terrazas rode into

the Ranger camp at Ysleta and presented Lieutenant Baylor, then a captain, with the

missing weapon and a note stating that Terrazas was glad to return it and to report that

the thief had been punished.

While at Boracho we were joined by Lieutenant Shaffer, the Ninth United

States Cavalry (negroes) , Lieutenant Manney, Captain Parker, and sixty-five Apache

scouts. These latter were Geronimo’s Chiricauhaus, who later quit their reservation

and wrought death and destruction in Arizona, New Mexico, and Mexico. From the

first General Terrazas viewed these Indian allies with distrust, and as soon as we

had scouted southeast from Boracho to Los Pinos Mountains, about seventy-five miles

distant, and learned that Victorio’s trail turned southwest toward Chihuahua, General

Terrazas called Captain Parker and Lieutenants Baylor, Shaffer, and Manney to his camp

and informed them that, as the trail had taken a turn back into the state of Chihuahua

and was leading them away from their homes, he thought it best for the Americans to

return to the United States. I was present at this conference and I at once saw my chance for a

scrap with old Victorio go glimmering. However there was nothing to do but obey orders, pack

up, and vamoose. While on scouts after Victorio’s band I met many United States officers, and

often around the campfire we discussed the old chief. The soldiers all agreed that for an ignorant

Indian Victorio displayed great military genius, and Major McGonnigal declared that, with

the single exception of Chief Crazy Horse of the Sioux, he considered Victorio the greatest


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Indian general who had ever appeared on the American continent. In following this wily

old Apache I examined twenty-five or more of his camps. He was very particular about

locating them strategically, and his breastworks were most skillfully arranged and built. If

he remained only an hour in camp he had these defenses thrown up. He had fought

over two hundred engagements, but his last fight was now close at hand.

The very next morning after the United States troops, the Apache scouts, and

the Texas Rangers turned homeward General Terrazas’ scouts reported to him that Victorio

with his entire band of followers was encamped at Tres Castillos, a small group of hills about

twenty-five miles southwest of the Los Pinos Mountains. General Terrazas at once set

his column in motion for that place. Captives afterward declared that Victorio’s spies

reported the presence of the Mexican cavalry early in the day, and thereafter kept

him informed hour by hour as to the movements of the approaching enemy.

Victorio had just sent his war chief, Nana, and fifty of his best young warriors away

on a raid, so he had left in his camp an even hundred braves, some of them very old men. He

also had ninety-seven women and children and about five hundred head of horses and

mules, yet the remarkable old Indian made no move to escape. By nightfall General Terrazas

had drawn near the Apache camp, where he surrounded the three hills as best he could

and waited until morning before assaulting the enemy. During the night twelve of

Victorio’s warriors, with four women and four children, deserted the old chief and

made their way back to the Eagle Mountains in Texas. Here they committed many


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depredations until they were exterminated three months later in the Diablo Mountains by

Lieutenants Baylor and Nevill.

Early the following morning Victorio mounted a white horse and, in making

some disposition of his braves to meet the expected onset of the enemy, exposed himself

unnecessarily. The Mexicans fired a volley at long range and two bullets pierced his

body. He fell from his horse dead—a good Indian at last.

The loss of Victorio and the absence of Nana demoralized the Apaches, and a

vigorous assault by General Terrazas resulted in a complete victory for the Mexicans.

Eighty-seven Indian warriors were killed and eighty-nine women and children were

captured with a loss of only two men killed and a few wounded. The victory covered

General Terrazas with glory. The Mexican government never ceased to shower honors

upon him and gave him many thousands of acres of land in the state of Chihuahua. The

general was so elated over the outcome of the battle that he sent a courier on a fast

horse to overtake Lieutenant Baylor and report the good news. The messenger caught us

in camp near old Fort Quitman. Every Ranger in the scout felt thoroughly disgusted

and disappointed at missing the great fight by only two days after having been with General

Terrazas nearly a month.

The captured women and children were sent south of Mexico City into a climate

wholly unnatural to them. Here they all died in a few years. When Nana heard of the

death of Victorio and the capture of the squaws and children he fled with his fifty warriors to the

Sierra Madre Mountains in the state of Sonora. There he joined forces with old


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Geronimo and massacred more people than any other small band of Indians in the

world. To avenge himself on Terrazas for killing his friends and carrying away their

wives and children, Nana and his band killed more than two hundred Mexicans before

joining Geronimo. Nana, with his new chief, surrendered to General Lawton in 1886 and was

carried away by our government to Florida, where he at last died.

On returning to camp at Ysleta Lieutenant Baylor found a commission as captain

waiting him. Captain Neal Coldwell had been named quartermaster of the battalion, his

company disbanded, and its letter, A, given to our company.

Though we missed the fight with Victorio it was not long before we were called upon

to scout after the band of twelve warriors who had deserted the old chief on the night before the

battle of Tres Castillos. However, we had first to clean up our company, for many

undesirable recruits had seeped into it. This accomplished, we were ready to resume our

Indian warfare.


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CHAPTER XVI

SOME UNDESIRABLE RECRUITS

In the early fall of 1880 two well-mounted and well-armed men appeared at the

Ranger camp at Ysleta and offered themselves to Captain Baylor for enlistment

in his company. After questioning the applicants at some length the captain

accepted them and swore them into the service. One gave his name as John (Red) Holcomb

and the other as James Stallings. Unknown to us, both these men were outlaws, who

joined the Rangers solely to learn of their strength and their methods of operation.

Holcomb was a rustler from the San Simon Valley, Arizona, a place long noted as a

resort of outlaws and murderers, and was living under an assumed name. Stallings had

shot a man in Hamilton County, Texas, and was under indictment for assault to kill.

These two recruits came into the service just before we started on our fall campaign

into Mexico after old Victorio, and were with us on that long scout. Although one was

from Texas and the other from Arizona, the two chummed together and were

evidently in each other’s confidence. Stallings had not been long in the company

before he showed himself a troublemaker.

As orderly sergeant it was my duty to keep a roster of the company. Beginning at

the top of the list and reading off the names in rotation, I called out each morning the

guard for the day. We had in the company a Mexican, Juan Garcia, who had always lived in the

Rio Grande country, and Captain Baylor had enlisted him as a Ranger that he might use

him as a guide, for Garcia was familiar with much of the country over which we were


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required to scout. It so happened that Jim Stallings and Garcia were detailed on the

same guard one day. This greatly offended Stallings, and he declared to some of the

boys that I had detailed him on guard with a Mexican just to humiliate him and he was

going to give me a damned good whipping. The boys advised him he had better not attempt

it. I could see that he was sullen, but it was not until months afterward that I learned the

cause.

After our return from our month’s scout in Mexico, Captain Baylor received a new

fugitive list from the adjutant general, and in looking over its pages my eyes fell on the

list of fugitives from Hamilton County, Texas. Almost the first name thereon was that of James

Stallings, with his age and description. I notified Captain Baylor that Stallings was a

fugitive from justice. Baylor asked me what Stallings had been indicted for and I replied

for assault to kill.

“Well, maybe the darned fellow needed killing,” replied the captain. “Stallings

looks like a good Ranger and I need him.”

Not many days after this I heard loud cursing in our quarters and went to

investigate. I found Stallings with a cocked pistol in his hand standing over the bed of

a Ranger named Tom Landers, cursing him. I could see that Stallings had been

drinking, and finally persuaded him to put up his pistol and go to bed. The next morning I

informed Captain Baylor of the incident, and suggested that if we did not do something

with Stallings he would probably kill someone. The captain did not seem inclined to take


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this view. In fact, I rather believe Captain Baylor liked a man who was somewhat “on the

prod,” as the cowboys are wont to say of a fellow or a cow that wants to fight.

John Holcomb soon found out as much about the Rangers as he desired to know,

and fearing he might be discovered, asked Captain Baylor for a discharge. After obtaining it he

took up his abode in El Paso.

Not long afterward at breakfast one morning, while the twenty Rangers were seated

at one long table, Jim Stallings had a dispute with John Thomas, who was seated on the

opposite side of the table and, quick as a flash, struck Thomas in the face with a tin cup

of boiling coffee. Both men rose to their feet and pulled their pistols, but before they could

stage a shooting match the boys on either side grabbed them.

I at once went to Captain Baylor and told him that something had to be done. He

seemed to be thoroughly aroused now and said, “Sergeant, you arrest Stallings, disarm,

and shackle him. I’ll send him back where he belongs.”

I carried out the order promptly and Captain Baylor wrote to the sheriff of Hamilton

County to come for the prisoner. Hamilton County is seven hundred miles by stage from

El Paso and it took a week to get a letter through. There was no jail at Ysleta at that time, so

we were compelled to hold this dangerous man in our camp.

Stallings was shrewd and a keen judge of human nature. We would sometimes

remove the shackles from him that he might get a little exercise. Finally it came the turn

of a Ranger named Potter to guard him. Potter had drifted into the country from

somewhere up north, and Captain Baylor had enlisted him. He knew very little about


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riding, and much less about handling firearms. Stallings asked Potter to go with him out into

the corral. This enclosure was built of adobe and about five feet high. It was nearly dark

and the prisoner walked leisurely up to the fence with Potter following close behind,

Winchester in hand. Suddenly Stallings turned a handspring over the fence and hit the

ground on the other side in a run. Potter began firing at the fugitive, which brought out

all the boys in camp. Stallings had only about one hundred yards to run to reach the Rio

Grande, and before anything could be done he was safe in Mexico. He yelled a goodbye to

the boys as he struck the bank on the opposite side of the river. Captain Baylor was

furious over the prisoner’s escape and promptly fired Potter from the service and

reprimanded me for not keeping Stallings shackled all the time.

Though we had lost the man we had his horse, saddle, bridle, and arms. Stallings at once

went to Juarez and John Holcomb met him there. The fugitive gave his pal an order on

Captain Baylor for his horse, saddle, and pistol, and Holcomb had the gall to come to

Ysleta and present this order. He reached our camp at noon, while the horses were all in

the corral. At the moment of his arrival I happened to be at Captain Baylor’s home.

Private George Lloyd stepped over to the captain’s and said to me, “Sergeant, John

Holcomb is over in camp with an order from Jim Stallings for his horse and outfit.”

“Gillett, you go and arrest Holcomb and put him in irons and I’ll see if I can find

where he is wanted,” ordered Captain Baylor, who had overheard what Lloyd said.

Holcomb, seeing Lloyd go into Captain Baylor’s house, became suspicious,

jumped on his horse, and left for El Paso in a gallop. I detailed three men to accompany me to


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capture him, but by the time we had saddled our horses and armed ourselves he was

out of sight. We hit the road running and after traveling two or three miles and inquiring

of people we met I became convinced that Holcomb had quit the road soon after leaving

our camp and was striking for Mexico. I therefore turned back in the direction of camp

and followed the bank of the river.

We had traveled perhaps a mile on our way home when we discovered Holcomb

coming up the river toward us. He was about four hundred yards away and discovered us

about the same time we saw him. Quickly turning his horse he made a dash for the river.

Where he struck it the bank was ten feet high, but he never hesitated, and both man

and horse went head first into the Rio Grande. The three men I had with me outran

me, and when they reached the point where the fugitive had entered the water they saw

him swimming rapidly to the Mexican side and began firing at him. I ran up and

ordered them to cease, telling them not to kill Holcomb, as he was in swimming water

and helpless. Just at this moment he struck shallow water and I ordered him to come

back or I would shoot him.

“I’ll come if you won’t let the boys kill me,” he called back.

I told him to hit swimming water quickly, which he did, and swam back to the

American side. He was in his shirtsleeves and his hat was gone. His horse, meantime, had

recrossed to our side of the river.

We all mounted and started back to camp, two of the Rangers riding in front with

Holcomb. I had not searched the prisoner because he was in his shirtsleeves. As we rode along


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he reached into his shirt-bosom and pulled out an old .45 pistol and handed it to one of the

boys, saying, “Don’t tell the sergeant I had this.” The Rangers at camp gave him some

dry clothes and dinner, then put him in chains and under guard.

Captain Baylor went on to El Paso, crossed the river to Juarez, and had Stallings

arrested. In two days we had him back in camp and chained to Holcomb. The captain

then wrote to Bell County, Texas, as he had heard John Holcomb was wanted there

for murder. Holcomb had a good horse and he gave it to a lawyer in El Paso to get him

out of his trouble. Of course we had no warrant for his arrest , and Judge Blacker

ordered our prisoner brought before him. The county attorney made every effort to have

Holcomb held, while his lawyer tried his best to have him released. The judge finally said he

would hold Holcomb for a week and unless the officers should find some evidence against

him during that time he would order him freed. It was nearly dark before we left El Paso on

our return to Ysleta, twelve miles distant. Holcomb had, in some manner, got two or three

drinks of whisky and was feeling the liquor. I had one Ranger with me leading the

prisoner’s horse. The road back to camp followed the river rather closely and the country

was very brushy all the way.

As soon as we had got out of El Paso, Holcomb sat sidewise on his horse, holding

the pommel of his saddle with one hand and the cantle with the other, all the while facing

toward Mexico. I ordered him to sit straight in his saddle, but he refused with an oath.

We were riding in a gallop and fearing he would jump from his horse and try to escape in

the brush, I drew my pistol and hid it behind my leg. Although Holcomb had the cape of


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his overcoat thrown over his head he discovered I had a pistol in my hand and began a

tirade of abuse, declaring I had a cocked gun in my hand and was aching for a chance

to kill him. I told him I believed from his fictions he was watching for a chance to quit

his horse and escape, and that I was prepared to prevent such a move. We reached

camp safely and chained Holcomb to Stallings.

These men, although prisoners, were full of life, and laughed and talked all the time.

Holcomb played the violin quite well. We held the two suspects several days and finally

one night one of the Rangers came to my room and said, “Sergeant, I believe there is

something wrong with those prisoners. They are holloaing, singing, and playing the fiddle.”

I was busy on my monthly reports and told him to keep a sharp lookout and before

I retired I would come and examine them. On doing so I found that while Holcomb played the

violin Stallings had sawed their shackles loose. They laughed when I discovered this

and said that when the boys had all gone to bed they intended to throw the pack saddle,

which they used for a seat, on the guard’s head and escape. We could get no evidence against

Holcomb and the judge ordered his release.

While a prisoner, Holcomb swore vengeance against Prosecutor Neal and me. Mr.

Neal heard of this threat, met Holcomb on the streets of El Paso afterward, and

jerking a small Derringer pistol from his pocket, shot Holcomb in the belly. Holcomb

fell and begged for his life. He was not badly hurt; as soon as he was well he quit El Paso

and went to Deming, New Mexico, where he stole a bunch of cattle. He drove the stolen herd

to the mining camp of Lake Valley and there sold them. While he was in a saloon drinking and


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playing his fiddle the owner of the cattle appeared with a shotgun and filled him full of

buckshot. As he fell, Holcomb was heard to exclaim, “Oh, boys, they have got me at last.”

Jim Stallings was sent to Fort Davis and placed in jail, from which he and half a dozen

other criminals made their escape.

A man named John Scott came to Captain Baylor, told a hard luck story, and asked to

be taken into the service. Captain Baylor enlisted the applicant and fitted him out with a

horse, saddle, and bridle, and armed him with a gun and pistol, himself standing good for the

entire equipment. Scott had not been in the service two months when he deserted. I was ordered

to take two men, follow him, and bring him back. I overtook him up in the brush near the

line of New Mexico, and before I had even ordered him to halt he jumped down, sought shelter

behind his horse, and opened fire on us with his Winchester. We returned the fire and killed

his horse. He then threw down his gun and surrendered. We found that he had

stopped in El Paso and procured a bottle of whisky. He was rather drunk when overtaken,

otherwise he probably would not have made a fight against three Rangers. Captain Baylor

took away his saddle, gun, and six-shooter and kicked him out of camp, but he was compelled

to pay $75 for the horse we had killed.

Another man, named Chipman, deserted our company and stole a bunch of horses

from some Mexicans down at Socorro. They followed the trail in the direction of Hueco

Tanks, where it turned west and crossed the high range of mountains west of El Paso. The

pursuers overtook Chipman with the stolen horses on the boundary of New Mexico.

The thief put up a fierce fight and killed two Mexicans, but was himself killed.


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Captain Baylor had a scout following the deserter, but the Mexicans got to him first

and had the fight before our men arrived. However, they buried the body of

Chipman where it fell . This man had made a good Ranger and we all felt shocked

when we learned he had stolen seven ponies and tried to get away with them single-handed.

Yet another San Simon Valley rustler, Jack Bond, enlisted in the company. A band of

rustlers and cow thieves were operating in the brush country, eighteen miles above El

Paso, about the time he joined the command. I did my best to break up this band and

made scout after scout up the river, but without success. Finally, Captain Baylor learned

that Bond and another Ranger, Len Peterson, were keeping the thieves posted as to the

Rangers movements. The captain dismissed these men from the company and within ten

days I had captured Frank Stevenson, the leader of the gang, and broken up the nest of

thieves. Stevenson was later sent to the penitentiary for fifteen years. Bond and Peterson went

to El Paso where they stole Mayor McGoffin’s fine pair of carriage horses and fled to New

Mexico. Subsequently Bond was killed at Deming by Deputy Sheriff Dan Tucker in an

attempted arrest.

Captain Roberts, Captain Coldwell, or Lieutenant Reynolds would never have let

such a bunch of crooks get into their companies, for they insisted on knowing something about a

man before they would enlist him. However, there was some excuse for Baylor at the time he

was on the Rio Grande. It was a long way from the center of population and good men were

hard to find. Then, too, it looked as if all the criminals in Texas had fled to New Mexico

and Arizona, from which places they would ease back into the edge of Texas and join


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the Rangers. Captain Baylor was liberal in his views of men: all looked good to him until proved

otherwise. If there was a vacancy in the company any man could get in; if he lacked

equipment, the captain would outfit him, deducting the cost from the man’s first

three months pay. However, Baylor generally had to pay the bill himself. The captain also

liked to keep his company recruited to the limit and this made enlistment in his command

easy.

In all the years I was with Captain Baylor I never knew him to send a non-

commissioned officer on a scout after Indians. He always commanded in person and always

took with him every man in camp save one, who was left to guard it, for he liked to be as

strong as possible on the battlefield.

Captain Baylor never took much interest personally in following cattle thieves, horse

thieves, murderers, and fugitives from justice. He left this work almost entirely to me.

Sometimes we would have as many as six or eight criminals chained up in camp at one time, but

the captain would never come to see them, for he could not bear to see anyone in trouble. His

open, friendly personality endeared him to the Mexicans, from El Paso down the valley as

far as Quitman. They were all his compadres and would frequently bring him venison, goat meat,

and mutton. Always they showed him every courtesy in their power.


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CHAPTER XVII

LAST FIGHT BETWEEN RANGERS AND APACHES

Despite General Terrazas’ great victory at T r e s C a s t i l l o s , h e d i d n o t

d e s t r o y a l l t h e Apaches tha t had been wi th o ld Vic to r io . Nana and fifty

warriors escaped, and finally joined Geronimo in his campaign of murder and destruction.

On the night preceding the battle in which Victorio was killed and his band of warriors

exterminated twelve braves with four squaws and four children deserted the old chief

and made their way to those rough mountains that fringe the Rio Grande in the

vicinity of Eagle Springs. At once this band began a series of pillages and murders

that has no parallel, considering the small size of the party.

The little band of Apaches soon appeared at Paso Viejo and began their

depredations by an attack on Lieutenant Mills and his cavalry. Paso Viejo is a gap in the

mountains which parallel the Rio Grande from the Eagle Mountains on the west to

Brites’s ranch on the east, and is situated ten or twelve miles west of the present little

town of Valentine, Texas. The tribe of Pueblo Indians has lived at the old town of

Ysleta, El Paso County, Texas, for more than three hundred years. They have always been

friends of the Americans and inveterate enemies of the Apaches. It was customary,

therefore, for the United States troops at Fort Davis to employ the Pueblos as guides

during the Indian disturbances along the border. In 1881 Bernado and Simon Olgin, two

brothers, were the principal chiefs of this tribe. Bernado was the elder, and looked it. Both chiefs

dressed in the usual Indian fashion, wore moccasins and buckskin leggins, and had


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their long black hair braided and hanging down the back. Simon was a very handsome

Indian, and he, with four of his tribe—all nephews of his—were employed by General

Grierson during the troublesome times of 1880-1881.

Simon and his four aides had been detailed to make scouts down on the Rio Grande

with Lieutenant Mills, commander of a detachment from the Tenth United States

Cavalry (colored). On their way out the troops reached Paso Viejo early in the evening,

and after they had eaten supper Simon advised the lieutenant to move out on the open

plains three or four miles north of the pass, where they would be safe from attack. Olgin said

that because of the fine water and good grass Paso w a s a f a v o r i t e c a mp i n g p l a c e

fo r t h e I n d i a n s going to and returning from Mexico, and if one of these bands reached the

pass during the night and found it occupied by soldiers they would attack at daylight and

probably kill some of them.

Lieutenant Mills, fresh from West Point, replied that he was not afraid of Indians

and did not propose to move. During the night the little band of twenty Apaches

reached the pass, just as Olgin had prophesied, and hid themselves in the rocks. The next

morning the soldiers had breakfast, packed their mules, and were standing by their

horses ready for the order to mount, when a sudden fusillade of bullets was fired into their

midst at short range. Other volleys came in quick succession. At the very first volley that grand

old Indian, Simon Olgin, was killed, as were five or six of the negro cavalry. The remainder of

the soldiers there upon fled, but the four Pueblo scouts took to the rocks and fought until


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they had routed the Apaches and saved the bodies of their uncle and the soldiers from

falling into the hands of the attackers to be mutilated.

Repulsed at Paso Viejo, the twenty Apaches next appeared at Bass Canyon, a gap in

the mountains on the overland stage road about twelve or fourteen miles west of Van Horn.

Here they waylaid an emigrant train on its way to New Mexico. At the first fire of the

Indians a woman of the party, Mrs. Graham, who was walking, jumped upon the tongue of

the wagon and reached for a Winchester, but was shot and killed. A man named Grant

was killed at the same time, while Mr. Graham had his thigh broken. From Bass Canyon

the Indians turned south, passed around the east end of the Eagle Mountains, and again

entered Mexico, where for a time they were lost to view.

The next appearance of the band was at Ojo Caliente, some hot springs on the Rio

Grande southwest of the Eagle Mountains. A captain of cavalry in command of some

colored troops near old Fort Quitman detailed a sergeant and seven men to scout down

the river as far east as Bosque Bonita, with instructions to keep a sharp lookout for Indian

signs and report back to camp in one week. The scout was made, and on the return

journey the soldiers camped for the night at Ojo Caliente. Next morning at daybreak they

were preparing to cook breakfast when the Apaches fell upon them, killing all but one

at the first assault. The single survivor made his escape on foot, and after two days in the

mountains without food finally reached camp and reported to his captain. The Indians

had evidently located the detachment the evening before the attack and waited until daylight

to massacre their victims. The redskins captured all the equipment and baggage of their


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victims, including seven horses and two pack mules. Before resuming their journey they took

six stake-pins made of iron and about twenty inches long, which were used by the

soldiers in fastening their horses, and drove one through each soldier’s corpse, pinning

it firmly to the earth. The captured stock was killed and eaten, for the soldiers animals were

fat while most of the ponies and little mules of the Apaches were worn out by constant

use in the mountains.

About two months after the massacre of the soldiers the warriors fell upon the stage

at Quitman Canyon and killed the driver, Morgan, and his passenger, a gambler named

Crenshaw, concealing their bodies so that they were never found. The reports about this

stage robbery and murder were so conflicting, and the impression that the driver and the

passenger had themselves robbed the stage and made Indian signs to avert suspicion was so

strong, that Captain Baylor deemed it best to go down to the canyon and investigate the

matter for himself. Accordingly, he made a detail of fourteen privates and one corporal,

and with ten days rations on two pack mules left Ysleta on January sixteenth to

ascertain if possible whether the stage had been robbed and the driver and passenger

killed by Indians or by white men, and to punish the robbers if they could be caught. To

repress disorder and violence at El Paso in his absence, Captain Baylor left me and a detail of

three men in our camp at Ysleta.

At Quitman, Captain Baylor learned that the trail of the stage robbers bore

southeast to Ojo Caliente, and as the foothills of Quitman Mountains are very rough, he went

down the north bank of the Rio Grande, since he felt quite certain he would find


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signs of the marauders in that direction. About twenty-five miles below Quitman he struck the

trail of a freshly shod mule, two barefooted ponies, and two unshod mules, and within

fifty yards of the trail he found a kid glove which was thought to have belonged to

Crenshaw. The trail now bore down the river and crossed into Mexico, where the Indian

band made its first camp. Captain Baylor followed, and the next day found the second

camp near the foothills of the Los Pinos Mountains, where we had left General

Terrazas the fall before. Here all doubts about the Indians were dispelled, as the

Rangers found a horse which had been killed for food, and a pair of old moccasins.

Moreover, the camp had been located on a high bare hill after the custom of the

Indians. The same day Captain Baylor found another camp and a dead mule, and on

the trail discovered a boot-top which was recognized as that of Morgan, the driver. Here, also,

was the trail of some fifteen or twenty mules and ponies, quite fresh, coming from the direction

of the Candelaria Mountains with one small trail of three mules going toward the Rio

Grande. The Rangers passed through some very rough, deep canyons and camped on the

south side of the Rio Grande, this being their second night in Mexico.

Next morning the trail crossed back into Texas. While proceeding toward Major

Carpenter’s old camp above the Bosque Bonita the scouting party found a camp where

the Indians had evidently made a cache, but Captain Baylor tarried here only a short time

and followed on down the river a few miles, when he found that the Apaches had struck out on a

beeline for the Eagle Mountains. The captain felt some hesitation about crossing the

plains lying between the Eagle Mountains and the Rio Grande in the daytime for fear of


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being seen by the Indians, but as the trail was several days old he took the risk of

being discovered. He camped within three or four miles of the mountains and at

daybreak took the trail up a canyon leading into the peaks. Suddenly he came upon a camp

which had been hastily deserted that morning, for the Indians had left blankets, quilts, buckskins,

and many other things useful to them. They had killed and piled up in camp two horses and a

mule, the blood of which had been caught in tin vessels. One mule tongue was stewing over a

fire, and everything indicated that the redskins were on the eve of a jolly war dance, for the

Rangers found a five-gallon can of mescal wine and a horse skin sunk in the ground that

contained fifteen or twenty gallons more. They also found the mate to Morgan’s boot-top

and a bag which had been made from the legs of Crenshaw’s pantaloons, besides express

receipts, postal cards, and other articles taken from the stage. The night before had been

bitterly cold and the ground had frozen hard, so that the Rangers could not get the trail,

though they searched the mountains in every direction, and the three Pueblo Indians, Bernado

Olgin, Domingo Olgin, and Aniceto Duran, looked over every foot of the ground. The

party now turned back toward Mexico to scout back on the west side of the Eagle Mountains

around to Eagle Springs in search of the trail.

At Eagle Springs, as good luck would have it, Captain Baylor learned that

Lieutenant Nevi11 and nine men had just gone toward Quitman to look for him. As soon as

Lieutenant Nevill returned to the Springs he informed Baylor that he had seen the trail six

miles east of Eagle Springs and that it led toward the Carrizo Springs or Diablo

Mountains.


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Captain Baylor’s rations were exhausted and Lieutenant Nevill had only enough

to supply the combined force five days, but the two commanders trusted either to catch the

Indians or reach the vicinity of the Pecos settlements within that time. The Apaches made

pretty good time across the plain in front of Eagle Springs, and did not seem to

recover from their scare until they reached the Diablo Mountains. Here they killed a

horse and cooked the meat and melted snow with hot rocks to obtain water.

The trail led northward by Chili Peak, a noted landmark to be seen from Eagle

Station. Here the Rangers quit the trail and went into the Diablo Mountains to camp at

Apache Tanks, where General Grierson had cut off Victorio from the Guadalupe

Mountains the summer before. Next morning Captain Baylor followed the trail north and

camped on the brow of some cliffs overlooking Rattlesnake Springs. The sign now led to

the edge of the Sierra Diablo, where the Indians camped and slept for the first time since

leaving Eagle Mountains. They were still watchful, as they were near a horrible looking

canyon down which they could have disappeared had the scouting party come upon them. Their

next camp was about ten miles farther on, and Captain Baylor saw that they were

getting more careless about camping. On the twenty-eighth he came upon another horse and

fire where the Apaches had eaten some meat. The legs of the horse were not yet stiff,

and blood dropped from one when picked up. The chase was becoming exciting, and Captain

Baylor and his men felt that their opportunity to avenge the many outrages committed by this

band was now near at hand.


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The trail led off north as though the redskins were going toward the Cornudas in New

Mexico, but turned east and entered the Sierra Diablo Mountains. In a narrow gorge

the Rangers found where the Indians had eaten dinner, using snow to quench their thirst, but

their horses had no water. From this camp the Apaches made for the cliffs on the northeast

side of the Devil Mountains. The Rangers now felt sure that the Indians were near by, as

they were nearly all afoot. The danger of being discovered if they passed over the hills during the

daytime was so apparent that the Rangers decided to make a dry camp and pass the

mountain’s brow before dawn the next morning. All the signs were good for a

surprise; the trail was not over two hours old, and a flock of doves passing overhead,

going in the direction of the trail, showed that water was near by.

On the morning of January twenty-ninth the Rangers were awakened by the guard, and

passed over the brow of the mountain before daylight. There was some difficulty in picking up

the trail, though Captain Baylor, Lieutenant Nevill, and the Pueblos had been up the

evening before spying out the land. By stooping down with their faces close to the ground

the Pueblos got the trail, which led north along the crest of the mountains. Soon the

guides said in low voices: Hay estan Los Indios, and Captain Baylor perceived their campfires

not over half a mile distant.

Leaving a guard of five men with the horses, the Rangers advanced stealthily on

foot. By taking advantage of the crest of the mountain they crept within two hundred yards of the

camp, supposing the Indians were camped on the western slope of the hill. The Apaches,

however, had been cautious enough to put one tepee on the eastern slope, overlooking


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the valley and the approaches from that direction. Captain Baylor thereupon ordered

Sergeant Carruthers of Lieutenant Nevi11’s company with seven men to make a

detour to the left and attack that wigwam, while Lieutenant Nevill and himself with

seventeen men advanced on the western camp. Sheltering themselves behind some large

Spanish dagger plants and advancing in Indian file, the attackers got within one

hundred yards of the Indians, who, apparently, had just left their beds, for it was now

sunrise. Halting, the men deployed to the right and left and then, kneeling, poured upon

the astonished Indians a deliberate volley. At the second fusillade they broke and fled, the

Rangers charging after them with a Texas yell.

Sergeant Carruthers executed his orders in gallant style. The Apaches on his side,

alarmed and surprised by the fire of Captain Baylor’s force, huddle together and three

were killed within twenty yards of their campfire. The redskins made no resistance, but ran

like deer, each man for himself. As they fled they were thickly peppered by the Rangers

and all but two or three out of the party of sixteen or eighteen left spots of blood along their

trail.

One Indian, whom the Rangers dubbed Big Foot because of his enormous track, ran up

the mountain in full view for four hundred yards; although no less than two hundred shots

were fired at him, he passed over the hill. Sergeant Carruthers and several men pursued

him for a mile and a half and found signs of blood all the way. Another warrior was

knocked down and lay as though dead for some time, but finally regained his feet and


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disappeared over the hills to a running accompaniment of Springfield and Winchester

balls. One brave stood his ground manfully, and was shot in the head early in the action.

The women, of course, were the principal sufferers. As it was a bitterly cold, windy

morning and all ran off with blankets about them, the Rangers found it difficult to

distinguish braves from squaws and in the confusion of the battle two women were killed

and a third mortally wounded. Two children were killed and another was shot through the foot.

One squaw, with three bullets in her hand, and two children were captured. Seven mules

and nine horses, two Winchester rifles, one Remington carbine, one United States cavalry

pistol and one .40 double-action Colt’s, six United States cavalry saddles taken from

the troops killed at 0jo Caliente, besides clothing and other articles fell as spoil to the

victors. All the Indians camp equipage was burned.

The victorious Rangers breakfasted on the battleground, as they had eaten

nothing since dinner the day before. Some of the men found horsemeat good, while others

feasted on venison and roasted mescal. The victors could not remain long at this camp

for water was very scarce. They had forty head of stock to care for, and the Indians, in

their flight, had run through the largest pool of water, dyeing it liberally with their blood.

The Rangers found enough good water for their own use, but the horses had to wait

until the force reached Apache Tanks, thirty miles distant . But for this scarcity of

water Captain Baylor could have added three or four more scalps to his trophies. The return

march was begun, and at Eagle Station Lieutenant Nevill and Captain Baylor separated.

The captured squaw and the two children were sent to Fort Davis to be turned over to


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the post commander for medical attention, since the Rangers had neither a surgeon nor a

hospital.

On their return from the battle of the Diablos, Captain Baylor’s Pueblo Indian

scouts suddenly halted about a mile from Ysleta, unsaddled and unbridled their tired

little ponies, and went into camp. This was their custom after a successful campaign against their

Apache enemies, so that their comrades might come out and do honor to the returning

heroes. For three days and nights a feast and a scalp dance were held by the whole of the

Pueblo tribe of Ysleta. They feasted, wined, and dined their returning warriors, and

invited the Rangers to the festivities. This celebration was the last scalp dance the Pueblo

Indians ever had, for the destruction of the Apaches in the Diablos exterminated the

wild Indians and there were no more of them to scalp.


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CHAPTER XVIII

AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE

The American citizens of Socorro, New Mexico, held a church festival during

Christmas week of 1881, Mr. A. M. Conklin, editor of the Socorro Sun, conducting

the exercises. Two Mexicans, Abran and Enofre Baca, appeared at the church under the

influence of liquor. Their talk and actions so disturbed the entertainment that Mr. Conklin

went to them and requested them to be more quiet, telling them they were perfectly welcome

in the church but that they must behave. The brothers, highly indignant, invited Mr.

Conklin to fight, but he declined and again assured them that they were welcome, but

must act as gentlemen. Abran and Enofre at once retired from the church.

After the social had ended Mr. Conklin was passing out of the church door with his

wife at his side when Abran Baca caught Mrs. Conklin by one arm and jerked her

away from her husband. At the same instant Enofre shot and killed the editor on the church

steps.

This foul murder aroused great indignation in the little town of Socorro, and

scouting parties were sent in all directions in pursuit of the murderers. However, the two

Bacas managed to elude their pursuers and escaped to Mexico. The governor of New Mexico at

once issued a proclamation offering $500 for their capture, while the citizens of Socorro

offered a like amount for them, dead or alive. The proclamation, with a minute description

of the two Bacas, was sent broadcast over the country, and, of course, the Rangers at Ysleta

received several of the circulars.


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The county judge of El Paso County at that time was Jose Baca, an uncle of the

two murderers. He was also a merchant at Ysleta, then the county seat. Captain Baylor’s

company of Rangers was quartered in the west end of Ysleta, about one-half mile from the

public square. On receiving the governor’s proclamation I set a watch over the home and

store of Judge Baca and kept it up for nearly a month, but without success. We finally

concluded that the Baca boys had not come our way and dismissed the incident from our

minds.

One morning in the latter part of March, however, Jim Fitch, one of our most

trustworthy Rangers, hurried back to camp from Ysleta and informed me that he had seen two

well-dressed Mexicans, strangers to him, sitting on the porch of Judge Baca’s home.

With a detail of four men I at once rounded up the Baca home and captured the two

strangers. Believing them to be the Baca brothers, I set out for New Mexico with

my prisoners.

Before we reached El Paso on our journey we were overtaken by Judge Baca, who had

with him an interpreter. He asked me to halt, as he wished to talk with the prisoners.

After a short conversation with the boys, the judge asked me what was the reward for

the capture of Abran Baca. I replied, “Five hundred dollars.”

“If you will just let him step out in the bosque and get away I will give you $700,”

Judge Baca finally said with some hesitation.


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Subsequently he raised the bribe to $1,000, but I informed him there was not enough

money in El Paso County to buy me off, so he returned to Ysleta, and I continued my

journey to New Mexico, feeling assured I had captured at least one of the Conklin murderers.

On arriving at Socorro I learned that I had Abran all right, but my second prisoner

was Massias Baca, a cousin of the murderers, but not involved in the crime.

I was treated royally by the citizens and officers of Socorro. They were delighted

that one of the murderers had been captured, and promptly counted out to me $250 as

their part of the reward offered for his apprehension. Colonel Eaton, deputy sheriff of

the county, gave me a receipt for the body of Abran Baca delivered inside the jail of Socorro

County, New Mexico. This receipt, forwarded to the governor of the territory,

promptly brought me a draft for $250 and a letter of thanks from his Excellency.

About a month after the capture of Abran Baca, I learned from Santiago Cooper, a

friend who lived in Ysleta, that he had seen a man at Saragosa, Mexico, whom, from the

description, he believed to be Enofre Baca. I told Cooper I would give him $25 if he

would return to Saragosa and find out to a certainty whether the person he had seen was

Enofre Baca. A week later he came to me and said the man at Saragosa was Baca, and that

the murderer was clerking in the one big store of the town. This store was a long

adobe building situated against a hill with the front facing so that one riding up to the

front of it would bring his saddle skirts almost on a level with the building because of the

terraces in front of it made necessary by the slope of the hill. Enofre was of florid

complexion with dark red hair, which made it easy to identify him.


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I kept this information about the murderer to myself for nearly a week while I

pondered over it. I was anxious to capture Baca, yet I well knew from previous experience that

if I caused him to be arrested in Mexico the authorities there would turn him loose, especially

when the influence of wealthy relatives was brought to bear. Knowing Captain Baylor

would follow the law to the letter, I could not take him into my confidence. Saragosa,

a town of about five hundred inhabitants, is situated about four miles southwest of

Ysleta. It is only about a mile from the Rio Grande as the crow flies, yet , because of

the many farms and big irrigation ditches, it was possible to enter or leave the town

only by following the public road between Ysleta and Saragosa. It has always been the

delight of border Mexicans to get behind an adobe wall or on top of an adobe house and

shoot to ribbons any hated gringo who might unfortunately be caught on the Mexican side of the

river. I knew only too well from my own experience that I could not go into Saragosa, attempt to

arrest a Mexican, stay there five minutes, and live, yet I determined to take the law into my own

hands and make the attempt.

I took into my confidence just one man, George Lloyd. If ever there was an ace

in the Ranger service he was one. When I unfolded my plans to him, he said, “Sergeant, that is

an awful dangerous and risky piece of business and I will have to have a little time in

which to think it over.” The next day he came to me and said, “Sergeant, I will go

anywhere in the world with you.” But although willing to accompany me I could see he

doubted our ability to execute the project.


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I planned to attempt the capture of Baca the next morning and sent Cooper back

to Saragosa to look over the situation there once more. He informed me on his return that Baca

was still clerking in the store. I now told Lloyd to keep our horses up when the animals were

turned out to graze next morning. This move caused no especial comment, for the men

frequently would keep their horses to ride down town. As soon as we had crossed the

Rio Grande into Mexico I planned to quit the public road, travel through the bosques, pass

around on the west side of Saragosa, and ride quickly up to the store in which our man was

working. Lloyd was to hold the horses while I was to dismount, enter the store, and make the

arrest. Then, if possible, I was to mount Baca behind Lloyd and make a quick get-away.

Our plans were carried out almost to the letter. We reached Saragosa safely, and while

Lloyd held my horse in front of the store I entered and discovered Baca measuring

some goods for an old Mexican woman. I stepped up to him, seized him by the collar, and

with drawn pistol ordered him to come with me. The customer promptly fainted and fell

on the floor. Two other people ran from the building, screaming at the top of their voices.

Baca hesitated about going with me, and in broken English asked where he was to be taken.

I informed him to Paso del Norte, and, shoving my pistol against his head, ordered him

to step lively. When we reached our horses I made him mount behind Lloyd. I then

jumped into my saddle and, waving my pistol over my head, we left Saragosa on a

dead run. Our sudden appearance in the town and our still more sudden departure

bewildered the people for a few minutes. They took in the situation quickly, however, and began

ringing the old church bell rapidly, and this aroused the whole population.


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As I left Saragosa I saw men getting their horses together and knew that in a few

minutes a posse would be following us. When we had gone two miles almost at top speed I

saw that Lloyd’s horse was failing, and we lost a little time changing Baca to my mount.

We had yet two miles to go, most of the way through deep sand. I could see a cloud of dust,

and shortly a body of mounted men hove in view. It was a tense moment. Lloyd

thought it was all off with us, but we still had a long lead and our horses were running

easily. As our pursuers made a bend in the road we counted nine men in the group.

When they had drawn up within six hundred yards they began firing on us. This was

at long range and did no damage. In fact, I believe they were trying to frighten rather

than to wound us, as they were just as likely to hit Baca as either of us. We reached the Rio

Grande at last, and while it was almost one hundred yards wide it was flat and shallow at

the ford. We hit the water running, and as I mounted the bank on good old Texan soil I

felt like one who has made a home run in a world series baseball game. Our pursuers

halted at the river, so I pulled off my hat, waved to them, and disappeared up the road.

We lost no time in reaching camp, and our appearance there with a prisoner and

two run-down horses caused all the boys in quarters to turn out. Captain Baylor noticed

the gathering and hurried over to camp.

“Sergeant, who is this prisoner you have?” he asked, walking up to me.

I replied it was Enofre Baca, the man who had murdered Mr. Conklin. The captain

looked at the rundown horses, wet with sweat, and asked me where I had captured him.

“Down the river,” I replied, trying to evade him.


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“From the looks of your horse I would think you had just run out of a fight. Where

down the river did you capture this man?”

I saw that he was going to corner me and I thought I might as well “fess up.” I

told him I had arrested Baca at Saragosa and kidnapped him out of Mexico.

Captain Baylor’s eyes at once bulged to twice their natural size.

“Sergeant, that is the most imprudent act you ever committed in your life! Don’t you

know that it is a flagrant violation of the law and is sure to cause a breach of

international comity that might cause the governor of Texas to disband the whole of

Company A? Not only this, but it was a most hazardous undertaking and it is a wonder to me

that the Mexicans did not shoot you and Lloyd into doll rags.”

Captain Baylor was plainly out of patience with me.

“Gillett, you have less sense than I thought you had,” he declared, heatedly. “If you

have any explanation to make I would like to have it.”

I reminded him of the tragic fate of Morgan and Brown, and how the authorities at

Guadalupe had turned loose their murderers, Esquibel and Molina. I declared that had I

had Baca arrested in Mexico, with his rich and influential friends to help him, he would

have gone scot-free. Baylor replied that two wrongs did not make one right, and said I

should have consulted him. I finally told him frankly that I had been in the Ranger service

six years, in which time I had risen from the ranks to be orderly sergeant at a salary of only

$50 a month. I pointed out that this was the highest position I could hope to get without a

commission, and while one had been promised me at the first vacancy yet I could see no


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early hope of obtaining it, as every captain in the battalion was freezing to his job. This

remark seemed to amuse Captain Baylor and somewhat eased his anger.

I went on to say that I not only wanted the $500 reward offered for Baca, but I

wanted the notoriety I would get if I could kidnap the murderer out of Mexico without being

killed in the attempt, for I believed it would lead to something better than a Ranger

sergeancy.

“Sergeant, you can go with your man,” Captain Baylor finally said, “but it is

against my best judgment. I ought to escort him across the Rio Grande and set him free.”

I lost no time in sending a Ranger to the stage office at Ysleta with instructions to

buy two tickets to Mesilla, New Mexico, and one to El Paso. The stage was due to pass our

quarters about twelve o’clock, so I did not have long to wait. I took Lloyd as a

guard as far as El Paso and there turned him back, making the remainder of the

journey to Socorro alone with the prisoner. I reached the old town of Mesil la,

New Mexico, at dark after a rather exciting day. I was afraid to put Baca in jail at that

place, as I had no warrant nor extradition papers upon which to hold him and I

feared the prison authorities might not redeliver him to me next morning. The

stagecoach from Mesilla to Rincon did not run at night, so I secured a room at the

hotel and chaining Baca to me we slept together.

On the following day we reached Rincon, then the terminus of the Santa Fe

Railroad. I had wired the officers of Socorro from El Paso that I had captured Baca and

was on my way to New Mexico with him. Baca’s friends had also been informed of his


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arrest, and they lost no time in asking the governor of New Mexico to have me bring the

prisoner to Santa Fe, as they feared mob violence at Socorro. When I reached San

Martial I was handed a telegram from the governor ordering me to bring Baca to

Santa Fe, and on no account to stop with him in Socorro.

Because of delay on the railroad I did not reach Socorro until late at night. The

minute the train stopped it was boarded by twenty-five or thirty armed men, headed by

Deputy Sheriff Eaton. I showed Eaton the governor’s telegram, but he declared Baca was

wanted at Socorro and that was where he was going. I remonstrated with him and

declared I was going on to Santa Fe with the prisoner. By this time a dozen armed men

had gathered around me who declared, “Not much will you take him to Santa Fe.” I was

furious, but I was practically under arrest and powerless to help myself. Baca and I

were transferred from the train to a big bus that was in waiting. The jailer entered

first, then Baca was seated next to him, and I sat next the door with my Winchester in

my hand. The driver was ordered to drive to the jail.

It was a bright moonlight night and we had not traveled far up the street when I

looked out and saw at least a hundred armed men. They came from every direction. The men

swarmed around the bus and three or four of them grabbed the horses by the bridle reins,

while others tried to force open the doors. I asked the jailer if I could depend on him to help

me stand the mob off, but he replied it would do no good. I was now madder than ever,

and for the first time in my life I ripped out an oath, saying, “Goddamn them, I am

going to stand them off!”


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As the doors were forced I poked my Winchester out and ordered the mob to stand back

or I would shoot. The men paid no more attention to my gun than if it had been a

broomstick. A man standing beside the bus door seized the muzzle and, with a quick

jerk to one side, caused it to fly out of my hand and out upon the ground. Another

man grabbed me by the collar and proceeded to pull me out of the bus. I spread my

legs and tried to brace myself, but a hard and quick jerk landed me out on the

ground, where one of the men kicked me. I was tame now, and made no effort to draw

my pistol. One of the crowd said to me, “What in hell do you mean? We do not wish

to hurt you but we are going to hang that damned Mexican right now!”

I then informed the mob of the nature of Baca’s arrest and told them that the

hanging of the prisoner would place me in an awkward position. Then, too, the reward

offered by the territory of New Mexico was for the delivery of the murderer inside the

jail doors of Socorro County. The leaders of the crowd consulted for a few minutes and

then concluded I was right. They ordered me back into the bus, gave me my

Winchester, and we all started for the jail. As soon as Baca had been placed in

prison Deputy Sheriff Eaton sat down and wrote a receipt for the delivery of Baca inside the

ja i l doo r s . By this time day was beginning to break and I tried to stay the hanging by

making another talk. The mob interpreted my motive and invited me to step down a block

to their community room where they would talk with me. I started with them but we had

gone only a hundred yards when the whole mob broke back to the jail. T started to go

with them but two men held me, saving, “It’s no use; they are going to hang him.”


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The men took Baca to a nearby corral and hanged him to a big beam of the gate.

The next morning Baca’s relatives came to me at the hotel with hats in their hands and

asked me for the keys with which to remove the shackles from the dead man’s legs. As

I handed them the keys I felt both mortified and ashamed. A committee of citizens

at Socorro waited on me just before I took the train for home, counted out $250 as

their part of the reward, and thanked me for capturing the two murderers. They assured

me they stood ready to help me financially or otherwise should I become involved with

the federal government over the capture and kidnapping of Baca.

I presume the relatives of young Baca reported his kidnapping to our government, for a

few weeks after his capture Mr. Blaine, Secretary of State, wrote a long letter to Governor

Roberts regarding a breach of international comity. Governor Roberts wrote Captain

Baylor for a full explanation of the matter. Captain Baylor, while never countenancing

wrongdoing in his company, would stand by his men to the last ditch when they were once in

trouble. He was a fluent writer, and no man in Texas understood better than he the many foul

and outrageous murders that had been committed along the Rio Grande, the perpetrators of

which had evaded arrest and punishment by crossing over into Mexico. Baylor wrote

so well and so to the point that nothing further was said about the matter. However, he

received an order never again to allow his men to follow fugitives into Mexico.

Soon afterward the Safety Committee of Socorro wrote to Captain Baylor saying:

“We are informed by a reliable party that Jose Baca of Ysleta, Texas, has hired a Mexican to

kill Sergeant Gillett. Steps have been taken to prevent this. However, he would do well to


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be on the lookout.” Baylor at once went to Judge Baca with this letter, but the jurist

emphatically denied any knowledge of the reported plot. Also, there was a report current

in both Ysleta and El Paso that a reward of $1,500 had been offered for the delivery of my body

to the Mexican authorities at El Paso del Norte. Upon investigation I found that no such offer

had been made, but for safety’s sake I kept out of Mexico for several years.


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CHAPTER XIX

LAST SCOUTINGS

During the summer of 1881 Captain Baylor’s c o m p a n y m a d e s e v e r a l s c o u t s t o

t h e S a c r a mento and Guada lupe mounta ins . These were reported to the

adjutant general as scouts after Indians, but there were no more redskins in Texas,

for the Rangers had done their work effectively. These expeditions were, therefore, more in

the nature of outings for the boys. It was pleasant to get away from camp in the hot Rio

Grande Valley and scout in these high mountains covered with tall pine timber that

teemed with game, such as deer, bear, and wild turkey. The plains between the

Guadalupe Mountains and Ysleta contained hundreds of antelopes, thus affording the

Rangers the best of sport.

On one of these hunting expeditions we had with us George Lloyd, who had been a

Ranger under Lieutenant Tays when his company was first mustered into service in El

Paso County. We camped at Las Cornudas, where Lloyd had had an engagement

with Indians. He went over the ground and gave us an interesting account of the

fight. He said there were but twelve men in the scout, including Lieutenant Tays. In

marching from Crow Springs to Las Cornudas, a distance of thirty miles, six of the

Rangers were riding nearly a mile ahead of the others and on approaching Las

Cornudas made for some tinajas (water holes) up in these mountains. They rode around

a point of rocks and met face-to-face some ten or twelve Indians coming out from the water.

Indians and Rangers were within forty feet before they discovered each other’s presence,


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and paleface and redskin literally fell off their horses—the Indians seeking cover in the

rocks above the trail while five of the Rangers turned somersaults into a friendly

gully.

A Ranger who was said to be a Russian nobleman and nihilist was killed early in the fight

and buried on the spot where he fell. A headboard was placed to mark the grave, but the Indians

soon defaced it by hacking at it with their knives whenever they passed the spot. Though he

could have had splendid cover, the Russian stood upright according to the etiquette

prevailing among British officers in the Transvaal and was shot through the brain.

In dismounting, Lloyd held on to the end of a thirty-foot stake-rope that was tied

around his horse’s neck. Four of the scouts wriggled their way down the creek and got away. In

reloading his Winchester after shooting it empty Lloyd unfortunately slipped a .45

Colt’s pistol cartridge into the magazine of his .44 Winchester and in attempting to

throw a cartridge into his gun it jammed, catching him in a serious predicament.

However, taking his knife from his pocket the fearless Ranger coolly removed the screw that

held the side plates of his Winchester together, took off the plates, removed the offending

cartridge, replaced the plates, tightened up the screw, reloaded his gun, and began firing. It

takes a man with iron nerve to do a thing like that, and you meet such a one but once in a

lifetime. When I was casting around for a man to go into Mexico with me to kidnap

Baca I naturally selected Lloyd out of the twenty men in camp.

Seeing that the Russian was dead and his companions gone, Lloyd crawled back down

the arroyo, pulling his horse along the bank above until he was out of danger. The five


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Rangers horses, knowing where the water was, went right up into the rocks, where they were

captured, saddles, bridles, and all, by the Indians.

As soon as Lloyd was gone, the redskins came out of hiding, took the Russian’s

Winchester and pistol, and left. Lloyd was the only man of the six to save his horse, for the

Indians with their needle guns, high up in the rocks, held Lieutenant Tays and the remainder of

his force at bay.

In the latter part of the summer of 1881 Captain Baylor moved his company of Rangers

from Ysleta to a site three miles below El Paso. While camped there the captain, was warned by

the sheriff of Tombstone, Arizona, to be on the lookout for four San Simon Valley

rustlers, supposed to be a part of Curley Bill’s gang. The robbers names were given as

Charley and Frank Baker, Billy Morgan, and a fourth person supposed to be Curley

Bill himself. These outlaws had stolen sixteen big work mules and four horses at a wood

camp some twelve miles from Tombstone. They had also robbed a store and, assaulting

the proprietor with pistols, left him for dead. A $500 reward was offered for the capture of the

desperadoes and the stolen stock. The robbers trail led down into New Mexico and it was

believed Curley Bill and his gang were headed for western Texas, where they would try to

dispose of the stock at some of the railroad grading camps near El Paso.

Captain Baylor at once ordered me to take seven men and five days rations and scout

up the Rio Grande to the line of New Mexico for the bandits trail, and, if I found it, to

follow it up. I worked up the river but found no trail. Neither could I learn anything

about any strange men driving stock through the country. My time was nearly up and I


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concluded to return to camp through a gap in the Franklin Mountains, some thirty or

forty miles north of El Paso. We left the Rio Grande late in the evening, passed out

through the gap, and made a dry camp on the plains east of the mountains.

Early the following morning we rode to a watering place known as Monday’s

Springs and stopped for breakfast. Here the boys discovered some horse and mule

tracks. At first we thought nothing of this, supposing the trail had been made by some

loose stock grazing near the water. From Monday’s Springs a dim road led along the east

side of the mountains to El Paso and we took this route home. Before we had traveled

very far we noticed that some of the stock was traveling the same road, though even then I

did not suspect that these tracks might be the trail of the bandits for whom we were

scouting. Finally, we came to footprints made by some men as they adjusted their saddles or

tightened their packs. Here it dawned on me that the tracks might have been made by the

parties we wanted.

I thereupon followed the trail carefully and it led me through what is today the

most beautiful residential portion of the city of El Paso. The tracks led to a big camp

yard where now stands the $500,000 federal building and post office. In the

description of the stolen stock we were told that one of the mules carried a small Swiss

stock bell. As I neared the wagon yard I heard the tinkle of this bell and felt sure we

had tracked our quarry. We dismounted, and with our Winchesters cocked and ready

for action, our little party of Rangers slipped quickly inside the large corral gate and within

ten feet of it we came upon three heavily armed men bending over a fire cooking their


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breakfast. Their guns were leaning against the adobe fence near at hand, so the surprise

was complete.

The outlaws rose to their feet and attempted to get their guns, but my men held

their cocked Winchesters at their breasts. I told them that we were Rangers ordered to

arrest them, and demanded their surrender. The robbers were undecided what to do;

they were afraid to pull their pistols or seize their guns, yet they refused to hold up their

hands. Finally, one of the Baker brothers turned slightly toward me and said they would

rather be shot down and killed then give up—surrender meant death anyway. I thereupon

answered that we had no desire to hurt them, but declared that the least attempt to pull a

gun would mean instant death to them all, and again ordered them to raise their hands.

They slowly obeyed. I stepped up to them, unbuckled their belts, and took their weapons.

In looking over their camp I found four saddles and Winchesters, but I had captured only

three men. I mentioned this fact to the prisoners and they laughingly said one of their

number had stepped down town to get a package of coffee, and had probably noticed our

presence and lit out. The two Baker boys and Billy Morgan were the men captured, and I

asked if the missing man was Curley Bill himself. They replied it was not, but refused to

tell who he was. As we had no description of him and he was on foot in a town full of

armed men we had no means of identifying him and he was never captured.

From the captured robbers we learned that, having run out of provisions, they had risen

early and come into El Paso for breakfast. They declared it was a good thing for us that they

had built their campfire so near the gate, for had they been thirty feet from it they would


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have put up a fight we should have remembered for a long time. I replied that the eight

of us could have held our own no matter where they had camped.

These robbers were held in our camp some ten days or more until the proper

extradition papers could be had from the State Capitol at Austin, as they refused to be

taken back to Arizona without the proper authority. They owned horses, which they

gave to some lawyers in El Paso to prevent their being taken back to the scene of their

crimes. We secured all the stolen stock—sixteen mules and four horses. The owners came and

claimed them and paid the Rangers $200, and the Arizona sheriff paid us a like amount

for the capture of the rustlers.

Our Rangers became well acquainted with these thieves while we held them in

our camp. They admitted they were going under assumed names and said they were

Texans, but refused to say from what part of the state they came. The three of them were

taken back to Arizona, tried for assault to kill and the theft of the horses at

Tombstone, and sent to the prison at Yuma for twenty-five years. They frequently

wrote to our boys from there and seemed to hold no grudge against us for capturing

them. The scout to capture these men was the last one of importance I took part in, for

my work with the Rangers was now drawing toward its close.

In the fall of 1881 Captain Baylor received word from Israel King of Cambray,

New Mexico, that a band of thieves had stolen a bunch of cattle from him and at last

reports was headed toward El Paso with them. With a detail of four men I was ordered to

make a scout up the river and into the thickets to intercept the rustlers. After traveling some


230

ten miles up the Rio Grande we crossed the river into New Mexico to get on more even

ground. Some eighteen miles above El Paso we found the trail of the stolen stock and

followed it back across the Rio Grande into Texas.

While working our way along the trail through almost impassable brush we entered

a small glade and came upon the stolen animals quietly grazing. On the opposite side of

them a Mexican with a Winchester stood guard, while his horse grazed near by. The guard

fired on us as he ran to his horse, and we were compelled to run around the cattle to get to the

thief. We fired our guns as we ran and this sudden noise frightened the loose pony so

that the fugitive was unable to mount. He was then forced to dive into the brush on foot.

Knowing we could make no headway through the heavy tornilla bosque, we dismounted and

charged it on foot. The fleeing Mexican undertook to run through a muddy slough formed by

backwater from the Rio Grande. Here he bogged, but extricating himself, he backed out the

way he had entered and found safety in the friendly brush. In running to where he was last

seen we found his gun abandoned in the mud. Some twenty or thirty shots were fired at him and

while none found the mark we captured his Winchester, his pony, and thirty-six head of

stolen cattle and gave him a scare that he will remember as long as he lives. The cattle

were returned to Mr. King, who presented us with a reward of $200 for their recovery.

We learned later that Frank Stevenson, a notorious rustler, whose rendezvous was in this

brush, had stolen these cattle and had left the Mexican in charge of them while he had gone

into El Paso to effect their sale. As described in a previous chapter, I finally

captured Stevenson and he was sent to the penitentiary for fifteen years for horse stealing.


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His capture and imprisonment broke up the Canutillo gang; today, the upper Rio

Grande Valley is almost an Eden on earth with its fine apple and peach orchards, its alfalfa

fields, big dairy herds, and elegant homes. It is one of the beauty spots adjacent to the now

fine city of El Paso. The Santa Fe Railroad traverses this valley, and I sometimes

travel over it. As I sit in an easy seat in the Pullman and look out over the country, I

always reflect on the past and wonder how many of its present inhabitants know what a

wilderness and what a rendezvous it once was for cutthroats, cattle thieves, and murderers.

While the Rangers were camped near El Paso during the fall of 1881 I met

Captain Thatcher, then division superintendent of the Santa Fe Railroad. He told me, because

of the stage and train robberies in New Mexico and Arizona, the railroad and the Wells-

Fargo Express companies feared that their trains would be held up near El Paso. They

had decided, therefore, to place an armed guard of three men on the main line of the Santa

Fe to run between Deming and Las Vegas, New Mexico, and a similar guard on the branch

from El Paso, Texas, to Rincon, New Mexico. Captain Thatcher had known me as

a Ranger, and my kidnapping of Enofre Baca out of Mexico had won me no little notoriety,

so he now offered me a position with the railroad company as captain of the guard at a

salary of $150 per month. I would be allowed to select my own men for guards and would

be responsible for their acts.

I requested time to consider the proposition. While the position as captain of the

railroad guard might not be permanent—might not hold out more than six months—yet

the salary attached was exactly three times what I received as sergeant of Rangers. I


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discussed Thatcher’s offer with Captain Baylor and finally prevailed upon him to give

me my discharge. On December 26, 1881, after serving as a Ranger for six years and

seven months, I laid down my Winchester with the satisfied consciousness that I had

ever done my duty. My term of service embraced one of the happiest portions of my life,

and recollections of my Ranger days are among my most cherished memories.

The personnel of Captain Baylor’s company changed rapidly, so that at the time of

my discharge there was scarcely a man in the company who had served longer than six

months. There was, therefore, no wrenching or straining of strong friendship ties when I left

the command, save only for my leaving of Captain Baylor. To part from him did, indeed,

make me feel sad. My farewell and departure were simple and unimpressive. I sat down with

my comrades for a last Ranger dinner of beans, bacon, bread, and black coffee. After

the meal I rose from the table, shook hands with Captain Baylor and the boys, mounted

my horse, and rode away from the Ranger camp forever.


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CHAPTER XX

FRUITS OF RANGER S E R V I C E

Early in the spring of 1881 the old town of El Paso awoke out of her Rip

Van Winkle s leep to f ind tha t fou r g rand t runk r a i l road l i nes were rapidly

building toward her and were certain to enter the town by the end of the year. Situated, as it

was, many hundreds of miles from any other town, it was a foregone conclusion that

El Paso had the making of a great city and was a fine field for investment.

Bankers, merchants, capitalists, real estate dealers, cattlemen, miners, railroad men,

gamblers, saloonkeepers, and sporting people of both sexes flocked to the town. They

came in buggies, hacks, and wagons, on horseback, and even afoot. Hotel accommodations were

utterly inadequate, so people slept and ate as best they could. El Paso Street, the only

business thoroughfare, was flooded with crowds.

At night there was not enough room for people on the sidewalks and they filled

the streets. A saloon was opened on almost every corner of the town, with many in between.

Each drinking place had a gambling house attached, where the crowds played faro bank,

monte, roulette, chuck-a-luck, stud poker, and every other gambling game on the

calendar. If one wished a seat at the gambling tables he had to come early in the evening

or be could not get within thirty feet of them. Two variety theaters, the Coliseum,

operated by the Manning Brothers—the largest in the southwest—and Jack Doyle’s, were

quickly opened.


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An election was called in El Paso and the city was duly incorporated and a mayor

and board of aldermen installed. George Campbell was elected city marshal and was given one

assistant, Bill Johnson. The new marshal had come to El Paso from Young County, Texas,

where he had been a deputy sheriff. He had done some good detective work and was a

good and efficient officer, but his assistant was much below ordinary.

The marshal soon found that with but one man to aid him he had the biggest kind of a

job on his hands, with something doing every hour in the twenty-four. Campbell decided he

was not getting enough pay for the work he had to do and asked for a raise in salary, but the

city council refused it. He at once resigned and left Bill Johnson to hold the town.

Campbell was very friendly with the sporting element in El Paso, especially with the

Manning Brothers, who were running two saloons and a big variety theater. Campbell

and his friends decided to use strategy to force the council to increase his salary and planned

to shoot up the town, thinking this would cause the city fathers to reinstate him in his old

position with a substantial increase in pay. At two o’clock one morning the town was

shot up, some three or four hundred shots being fired promiscuously and with no attempt

to make arrests.

The following morning Mayor McGoffin sent a hurry call to Captain Baylor at Ysleta

and asked that a detachment of Rangers be sent to El Paso to help police the town. At that

time I had not severed my connection with the Rangers, so I was ordered to make a detail

of five men, issue them fifteen days rations, and have them report at once to the mayor of El

Paso.


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The peace-loving citizens of the town welcomed the Rangers, secured good quarters for

them, and furnished them with a stove on which to cook their meals. They had been

doing police duty about a week when there appeared in the town from New Mexico

the famous Dallas Stoudenmire. The newcomer was six feet two inches in height and

weighed one hundred and eighty-five pounds. He had a compelling personality and had

been a Confederate soldier, having served with General Joe Johnston at Greensboro, North

Carolina. He applied for the position of city marshal, and having good references was duly

appointed.

George Campbell now saw his chance for reinstatement as an officer in El Paso go

glimmering. Marshal Stoudenmire called on Bill Johnson for the keys of the city jail , but

the latter refused to surrender them. Thereupon Stoudenmire seized the recalcitrant

assistant, shook him up, and took the keys from his pocket, thereby making his first enemy

in El Paso.

About ten days after the new marshal had been installed it was reported in El Paso

that two Mexican boys had been found murdered some ten or twelve miles from town on the

Rio Grande. The Rangers stationed in the city went out to the ranch to investigate. The

bodies were brought to El Paso and a coroner’s inquest was held in a room fronting

on El Paso Street. Johnnie Hale, manager of Manning’s little ranch, was summoned to

appear before the coroner, and it was believed by the Rangers that Hale and an ex-Ranger

named Len Peterson had committed the double murder.


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The inquest, being held in such a public place, attracted a crowd of onlookers.

Besides the Rangers, Marshal Stoudenmire, ex-Marshal Campbell, and Bill Johnson were

present. Gus Krimpkau, an ex-Ranger, who had come from San Antonio to El Paso County with

Captain Baylor, acted as interpreter. The trial dragged along until the noon hour and

the proceedings were adjourned for dinner. The Rangers went at once to their quarters to

prepare their meal, though there was still a crowd standing about the scene of the inquest.

Krimpkau came out of the room and was accosted by John Hale, who had become offended

at the way he had interpreted the evidence. After a few hot words Hale pulled his pistol

and shot Krimpkau through the head, killing him instantly. Marshal Stoudenmire ran up

and shot at Hale, but missing him, killed a Mexican bystander. At the second shot

from the marshal’s pistol, however, Hale fell dead. George Campbell had pulled his

pistol and was backing off across the street when Stoudenmire suddenly turned and shot him

down. Four men were thus killed almost in the twinkling of an eye.

Stoudenmire was held blameless by the better class of citizens for the part he had

played, but a certain sporting element—mostly friends of Campbell—was highly indignant at

him for killing Campbell, and declared the latter had been murdered. The Manning Brothers

were especially bitter against the marshal, as he had killed their ranch foreman, Hale,

and their friend, Campbell. The friends of the latter sought to take the life of

Stoudenmire, and they used as their instrument Bill Johnson, a man of simple

mentality. They furnished him with plenty of free whisky and when they had made

him drunk they told him Stoudenmire had had no right to catch him by the collar and


237

shake him as if he were a dog. Johnson finally agreed to kill the marshal. One night,

armed with a double-barrel shotgun, he stationed himself behind a pile of bricks in San

Antonio Street where it enters El Paso, and lay in wait for his intended victim.

Stoudenmire was then down at Neal Nuland’s Acme saloon, and it was well known

that he would soon make his round up the street. Shortly afterward he was seen

coming, and when he had approached within twenty-five feet of the brick pile Bill

Johnson rose to his feet and fired both barrels of his shotgun. Unsteady with drink,

Johnson’s fire went over the marshal’s head and left him unharmed. The marshal

pulled his pistol and with lightning rapidity filled Johnson full of holes. At the same

moment Campbell’s friends, posted on the opposite side of the street, opened fire on

Stoudenmire and slightly wounded him in one foot, but he charged his attackers and single-

handed put them to flight.

From that day Marshal Stoudenmire had the roughs of El Paso eating out of his

hand. There was no longer any necessity for the Rangers to help him police the town and

they were withdrawn. Stoudenmire’s presence on the streets was a guarantee of order

and good government. He was a good man for the class of people he had to deal with, yet

he knew there were those in El Paso who were his bitter enemies and always on the alert for

a chance to take his life. This caused him to drink, and when under the influence of liquor he

became mean and overbearing to some of his most ardent supporters, so that by the spring of

1882 he was asked to resign. In a dramatic and fiery speech Stoudenmire presented his


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resignation, declaring he had not been treated fairly by the city council and that he could straddle

them all.

Immediately on leaving the Rangers I had accepted a position as captain of guards on the

Santa Fe Railroad, under my friend, Captain Thatcher. I did not remain long in the railroad’s

employ, however, resigning after a few months to become assistant city marshal under Mr.

Stoudenmire. On his resignation as marshal I was appointed to succeed him. On my

appointment he walked over, took me by the hand, and said, “Young man, I

congratulate you on being elected city marshal, and at the same time I wish to warn you

that you have more than a man’s size job on your hands.”

Stoudenmire at once secured the appointment as United States deputy marshal of the

Western District of Texas, with headquarters at El Paso. He always treated me with the greatest

consideration and courtesy, giving me trouble on only one occasion. I reproduce here a

clipping from an El Paso paper of the time: “Last Thursday night a shooting scrape in which ex-

Marshal Stoudenmire and ex-Deputy Page played the leading parts occurred at the Acme

saloon. It seems that early in the evening Page had a misunderstanding with Billy Bell.

Stoudenmire acted as peacemaker in the matter. In doing so he carried Page to Doyle’s

concert hall, where the two remained an hour or so and got more or less intoxicated. About

midnight they returned to the Acme and soon got into a quarrel. Stoudenmire drew his

pistol and fired at Page; the latter, however, knocked the weapon upward and the ball went

into the ceiling. Page theh wrenched the pistol from Stoudenmire and the latter drew a

second pistol and the two combatants were about to perforate each other when Marshal Gillett


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appeared on the premises with a double-barrel shotgun and corralled both of them.

They were taken before court the following morning and fined $25 each and Stoudenmire was

placed under bond in the sum of $250 to keep the peace.”

My election as marshal I attribute solely to my training as a Ranger, and to the

notoriety my kidnapping of Baca out of Mexico had given me, so that the marshalship of

the town was one of the direct fruits of my Ranger service.

I was an officer of El Paso for several years. Soon after my acceptance of the

marshalship Captain C. L. Nevill, with whom I had served in Lieutenant Reynolds company,

resigned his Ranger command and became sheriff and tax collector of Presidio County,

Texas. The Marfa country was now seen to be a very promising cattle section, so

Captain Nevill and I formed a partnership and embarked in the cattle business. This did

not interfere with our duties as sheriff and marshal, respectively, and we soon built up a

nice little herd of cattle.

In the spring of 1885 General Gano and sons of Dallas formed a company

known as the Estado Land and Cattle Company. The new concern arranged to open a

big ranch in Brewster County and General Gano wrote to Captain Nevi11, asking him to

secure a good cattleman as ranch manager for the new company. Nevill at once wrote

me and advised me to accept this position. In his letter he jokingly remarked: “Jim, you have

had a quart cup of bullets shot at you while a Ranger and marshal, and now that you

have a chance to quit and get something less hazardous I advise you to do it. Besides, you

will be near our own little ranch and can see your own cattle from time to time.”


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I considered the proposition seriously, and on April 1, 1885, I resigned from the

police force of El Paso and became a cowboy again. In accepting the marshalship I had

reaped the fruits of my Ranger service; now, in resigning from that position I severed all

connection with the Ranger force and all that it had brought me. Henceforth my Ranger days

and Ranger service were to be but a memory, albeit the happiest one of my life.

I managed the Estado Land and Cattle Company’s ranch for nearly six years and during

that period the herd increased from six- to thirty-thousand head. When I resigned the

managership it was that I might attend to my own ranch interests, which had also grown in

that period. Though today I own a large and prosperous ranch in the Marfa country,

and though my business interests are many and varied, I still cherish the memory of my

Ranger days and am never too busy to see an old Ranger comrade and relive with him those six

adventurous, happy, and thrilling years when I was a member of the Frontier Battalion of the

Texas Rangers.


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jim gillett - six years with the texas rangers

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